


they stumble that run fast

by thedevilchicken



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Lack of Communication, M/M, Male De Sardet (GreedFall), Past Child Abuse, Scars, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22209235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Kurt says he might have been a bit hasty in telling de Sardet he's not interested. They decide to spend some time alone together after all, but it's more complicated than de Sardet expects.
Relationships: Kurt/De Sardet (GreedFall), Kurt/Male De Sardet
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	they stumble that run fast

**Author's Note:**

> This fic assumes: 
> 
> 1) De Sardet suggesting he helps with Kurt's loneliness (and Kurt politely declining) happened before they left Sérène  
> 2) De Sardet successfully completed Kurt's questline and a) knows about Hermann, and b) stopped the coup  
> 3) De Sardet and Kurt weren't really friends before they left Sérène (which is the only way I can make sense of Kurt being involved in the coup if you don't complete his quests!)
> 
> Whether or not this is also an AU where Constantin isn't dying of the Malichor is up to your imagination.
> 
> **Please bear in mind that there's a portion of this that deals with Kurt's childhood abuse by Hermann, _and goes into detail_.**
> 
> Basically: Kurt has lingering trauma and de Sardet doesn't handle helping him through it particularly well. Happy ending, yes, but they're both just muddling through as best they can when they're so inexperienced in the relationship department...

He's standing outside the door to Kurt's room. 

Technically speaking, he knows Kurt should sleep in the palace guard room at night, or go back to the Coin Guard barracks and take a spare bunk there; however, their first night after leaving the Sea-Horse at the docks in New Sérène, de Sardet offered him a room in the legate's residence. Kurt frowned and smiled at the same time, apparently confused by the offer like he wasn't sure what he should say to it, like he wondered if it was some kind of joke at his expense, or a trick his former student had decided to play on him now his uncle wasn't there to disapprove, or just a pretty noble formality he didn't understand and was expected to decline. It could have been any of those things. At that time, Kurt didn't know him well enough to say for sure.

Honestly, de Sardet doesn't know why he asked, either; he knew he wasn't joking, but it wasn't an invitation that made a great deal of sense. Kurt had trained him and his cousin for more than a decade by that point but de Sardet barely knew any more about him than his name and the extent of his skill with a sword, and he suspected the same was also true in reverse. Kurt hadn't exactly been their constant companion. They weren't friends. They were acquaintances at best, not the sort of people who routinely shared a roof. It wasn't an arrangement that would sit particularly well with Congregation etiquette, either, and Kurt seemed destined to decline the unexpected offer. But then de Sardet gave him a bright smile and said, "I guarantee the bed will be at least twice as comfortable as you'd have in the barracks. And do you honestly believe that Constantin will complain about us breaking protocol?" He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. He set his hands on his hips. "Have you met my cousin? He's never met a protocol he didn't want to trample over with impunity."

Kurt laughed. He agreed, if perhaps only because the mattresses really were more likely to be comfortable in the legate's house than in the barracks or the guardhouse, or maybe he thought the food would be better, or maybe he already knew about the coup his higher-ups were planning and thought physical proximity to a Congregation official would be helpful. Whatever the reason was back then, they're still sharing the same house months later. When Commander Sieglinde wants Captain Kurt, she knows precisely where to find him.

There are eight bedrooms in the residence that are meant for the legate plus their family and guests, with the servants' quarters further back by the kitchens. Petrus has the grandest of them, at least after de Sardet's, and he seems quite comfortable in it - perhaps he recalls his time with the Congregation more fondly than he does his home in Thélème, or at least the part of that time that involved de Sardet's mother. Vasco chose the smallest room; he said he wasn't sure what to do with all that space, given a life spent elbow to elbow with his crew at sea, though the smallest is still three times larger than the captain's cabin on the Sea-Horse. Aphra chose hers for the view she has from the window with her little brass-ringed spyglass, and Síora took the one with the largest fireplace so she doesn't need to sleep wrapped up in all her furs. She doesn't like it there in New Sérène - she says her connection with the land is frustratingly weak in all of the _renaigse_ settlements - but at least she can be comfortable when she sleeps at night.

Kurt, though, before any of the rest of them had arrived, chose the attic room that's tucked in underneath the eaves. De Sardet's still not quite sure who the room was originally intended for, given the rougher finish to its floors (bare polished boards in place of parquetry) and sparse decoration on the one hand, then its pleasant size and excellent view over the city on the other. And it sits at the top of a spiral stair so narrow he's not sure how they brought the bed in except by winching it up before the window was installed. Perhaps Kurt wanted to stay close but still maintain some small sense of distance so that killing him, had it come to that, might have been easier for him to do. Or maybe he just liked the view from the highest point in the house, it was hard to say. It still is. Maybe one day he'll ask him. Maybe he'll even tell him the truth.

A few moments ago, de Sardet climbed the spiral staircase. Now, he hovers at the door with a candlestick flickering in his hand, asking himself why suddenly the intricacies of politics and diplomacy on Teer Fradee seem so much simpler than speaking to a man he's known, at least in some ways, for almost half his life. A man he trusts more now, since their arrival on the island, than he ever did before. A man he trusts with both his own life and, perhaps more tellingly, with Constantin's. He just hopes that's not been spoiled by the things he's done.

There are things they need to talk about, but he's not quite sure where to begin. And honestly, he's not even sure he'll be welcome. 

\---

It all started close to two weeks ago now, one night as they were camping on the road heading east toward Hikmet. It was still very early in the morning and they were changing watches - de Sardet was due to hand over to Kurt and he looked up as Kurt joined him, settling down beside him on the wide log they'd rolled into position not far from the fire. They'd started the fire to keep the ulgs away as much as for its warmth and while it wasn't as cold as he'd known it sometimes back home across the sea, there was still enough of a chill in the air that he was glad for it. After all, he hadn't slept many nights outside back in Sérène, especially not without a tent, and not outside the summer months.He'd never needed to before, and now he spent half his life sleeping on a bedroll on the ground.

"Green Blood," Kurt said, quietly, so he wouldn't risk waking the others. "I want to ask you something, if you have the time."

"Of course," he replied. "What is it, Kurt? Is there something I can help you with?" He arched one brow. "Please don't tell me we need to prevent another coup."

Kurt smiled wryly. "You know, I hope I never have to tell you anything like that again," he said, then his expression moved from wry into frustrated and faintly awkward. He wrung his hands, like he was irritated with himself for his hesitation given his usual confidence. "It's just...you remember you once asked me if I ever got lonely?"

De Sardet frowned. "It's not something I'm likely to forget," he replied. "I made a bit of a fool of myself."

"And I asked you if you meant you'd like to help with that. The loneliness, I mean. Not the foolishness." 

"I remember that, too. As I recall, I said yes and you turned me down."

Kurt scowled. "I mean, I was trying to say that kind of thing wasn't to my taste in general, not just that you weren't."

"I understood. Honestly, you were surprisingly polite about it." De Sardet's frown deepened. "Excuse my curiosity, Kurt, but why exactly are you bringing this up now?"

Kurt sighed. He ran his hands over his hair. He rubbed his mouth, his fingertips finding the scar in his lips that de Sardet had more than once caught himself daydreaming of touching. More than twice. A great deal more, if he was honest about it, but that had been a lifetime ago, back home in Sérène. 

"Well, it turns out I might have been a bit hasty," Kurt said.

"Hasty?"

"Things have happened lately that have left me asking questions. I suppose it's about time I admitted the truth."

"And what truth is that?"

"Well, that not every man I meet's like that bastard we got burned in San Matheus. There's some good ones in the world, too." He shrugged. He rubbed the back of his neck. He lifted his chin and stretched his throat, looking up at the stars, then he shifted. He gave de Sardet a sideways glance. "Then there's some like you."

"Friends, you mean?"

"Honestly?" Kurt's mouth twisted into something almost like a smile and he turned his head to look at him properly. "I think I've been seeing you as something different for a while now. Something like how you saw me before we left Sérène."

They looked at each other, in the firelight as the others slept. Kurt had his hat off and he patted his hair down the way he does sometimes when his superiors send for him and he's not sure what they'll have to say when he arrives. He looked away, into the fire, and he scuffed the dirt with the heel of his boot, and something in de Sardet's gut began to twist with anticipation. 

"What did you want to ask me?" he asked, and Kurt glanced at him again, sideways, as he leaned forward with his elbows to his knees. His hair had tipped slightly out of place and the firelight edged his scars with shadows, making him look weary and worn and every inch the mercenary who might stab a man in the neck at any moment, assuming he'd been paid enough for it. But the look on his face seemed oddly hopeful. Wary, too, and guarded, but hopeful. 

"Well, look, I was wondering," he said. He took a breath and clasped his hands together. "When we get back to New Sérène, would you like to spend some time with me?"

"We spend quite a lot of time together now, don't we?" de Sardet replied.

Kurt snorted. He smiled tightly. "I don't mean like that. Or like this, either." He gestured at their sleeping companions scattered around the campfire. "I mean just you and me. Like you meant back in Sérène, if you're still interested in that."

They fell quiet beneath the crackle of the fire, and the question hung there in between them, weighing down the air as they looked at each other. De Sardet had always known that he found Kurt attractive, but he'd had better sense than to act on it, at least until that day when he hadn't; he still isn't sure why he'd said anything, except perhaps he was still giddy with the idea of his new authority and leaving Sérène. Sitting there that night, he definitely wasn't sure why he'd done it. But the attraction had always been there, for his part, from the start, though Kurt had driven him and his cousin quite hard. 

They'd talked about him sometimes, when Constantin had sneaked into de Sardet's room at night, or when they'd practiced with their swords in the palace courtyard. Sometimes one of them or the other had pretended to be Lieutenant Kurt, then Captain Kurt when his promotion came. Sometimes Constantin had seemed jealous of the attention his cousin had paid, and he might have been even more so if he'd seen the things de Sardet did at night as he thought about their trainer. Sitting there, he remembered being fifteen, seventeen, eighteen, twenty years old, twenty-two, and locking his door from the inside so that no one could see it when he stripped off his clothes and touched himself, one hand clamped down over his mouth to keep quiet and the other one around his cock. 

He remembered being nineteen, remembered his nineteenth birthday, training in the yard with Kurt's claymore proving much, much more effective than de Sardet's rapier ever would be, and then afterwards he went out into the city. He remembered drinking too much, and flirting a great deal more than he knew was sensible with an off-duty sergeant with eyes that maybe looked like Kurt's if you just squinted in the candlelight. In a rented room above the tavern, it was easy enough to pretend the cock in him was Kurt's, if he just closed his eyes. They both had scars he could feel with his fingertips. They both had fingertips callused by the hilt of a sword. That night, he'd slept with one while he'd imagined the other.

De Sardet had honestly believed he'd put away those things that he'd imagined, or at least the fantasy that he could ever be more than just Kurt's (former) student. Months apart on the voyage to the island had helped with that, he'd thought; Constantin had talked very nearly constantly, as usual, which had helped to take his mind off Kurt's surprisingly considerate refusal, and Captain Vasco had caught his eye to some extent, and by the time they'd disembarked at New Sérène, he'd been perfectly prepared to give up his silly adolescent fancy for the reality of his new position. The fact was, however, that the two of them had somehow stumbled into a friendship. A good friendship. A strong friendship. An important friendship, he thought, second only to what he had with Constantin. It had been entirely unexpected, given how close they absolutely hadn't been back home in Sérène, but he'd found it very welcome nonetheless. He'd found it satisfying in a way that his crush had never been.

Perhaps he should have said no because of that, because of their friendship, but the attraction he thought he'd let go of turned out to just be tucked away and waiting. As he considered it, sitting there by the campfire, he felt his old fantasies rise up to tangle hotly with every part of their new friendship. And now he knew Kurt, really _knew_ Kurt, understood the depths of his loyalty and the twists and turns of his past, not Kurt trusted him perhaps as much as de Sardet trusted him, there was more to it than had ever been before - it wasn't just the idle thought of a tumble with his master of arms. In that moment, sitting by the fire, he understood exactly what could happen to him if he let it, and how in his adulthood he could want so very much more than one night's foolish fumble. He could want more than friendship, too. 

And perhaps all that Kurt was saying was he was looking for a bit of casual company - after all, that was what de Sardet had been suggesting when they'd spoken in Sérène. Maybe what he wanted from him was purely physical, and he preferred that it be with someone that he trusted. If so, de Sardet thought he could live with that. At the very least, he thought he'd rather live with it than live without it. 

"Kurt..." he said.

"Look, I understand if you've gone off the idea. I said no, and it's been months. I'm not exactly catch of the day. And I mean, a lot's happened since then."

De Sardet paused. "Yes," he said. "A lot has happened." 

Kurt smiled resignedly. He turned back to the fire. "No need to say any more. I understand."

"I don't think you do." 

He reached out. He settled one bare hand on Kurt's thigh, just above his knee, and gave a squeeze. Kurt's eyes widened a fraction.

"Green Blood..."

"I'm trying to say yes, Kurt." 

"You are?"

"I am. If anything, I think I'd like it more now than I would have then." He paused, examining Kurt's face in the firelight, and his own cheeks started to warm as Kurt looked back at him. "I'd like you to meet me in my room when we return to New Sérène."

Kurt smiled. He ducked his head but he didn't quite hide it and he put one rough, presently gloveless hand down on top of de Sardet's. His thumb slipped underneath his wrist, the pad over his racing pulse. He squeezed. "I'll do that," he said. "I'll definitely do that."

And honestly, de Sardet felt like he could have kissed him then and there, with all the pent-up desire he'd apparently had in him for the best part of a decade. Except who knew who might have seen and who knew who Kurt would mind seeing, if anyone. 

He retired to his bedroll by the fire and he went to sleep instead. He drifted off still surprised by the turn of events, but also hopeful.

\---

In the days that followed, on the road to Hikmet, if felt very much like things had changed between them without appearances changing at all. 

He and Kurt glanced at each other, not quite furtively, out of corners of eyes and from beneath brims of hats. They fought side by side along the way just like usual, hearts thumping, breath quick, but the way that Kurt looked at him both during and after, flushed and slightly rakish at the edges, thrilled him even more than the fighting usually did. At night, Kurt spread his bedroll closer to de Sardet's than he ever had before, with barely the breadth of the hilt of his sword to separate them. When de Sardet turned his head, Kurt was watching him in the firelight. When de Sardet reached out, the back of his fingers brushed Kurt's underneath the overlapping edges of their blankets. Kurt half-smiled and closed his eyes. They went to sleep. To say they were so close, de Sardet knew that personally he could have stood to be closer still.

In Hikmet, Kurt stood just off de Sardet's right shoulder, a comforting presence in case of any manner of assault. Once they had performed their duties with the governor, they spent the night in the Congregation embassy, and de Sardet felt the odd new disappointment of being without Kurt at his side. He would have liked to have asked him to join him in his room and sleep there at the very least but in the somewhat close quarters of the embassy, much closer than the legate's residence in New Sérène, where suitable bedrooms were in short supply and sharing arrangements had already been made on their previous visits, one of the others would have likely noticed him slipping away. De Sardet spent the night alone, trying not terribly hard not to imagine what might have happened had he not. He tried not to imagine him in the well-fitting brigandine he'd bought for him before they'd left New Sérène, and how the look that Kurt had given him made a certain sense now that he knew he had an interest in him. He tried not to imagine him looking at him like that, like the gift of new armour meant something significant, like _he_ was something significant, as he took that armour off again. It didn't exactly help him to forget that Kurt wasn't present.

But, in the morning, on their way down to breakfast while the others helped themselves in the dining room, the two of them lingered in the hallway outside. Kurt's hat - the first thing de Sardet had bought for him after landing on the island - was still in the room he was sharing with Vasco, and he had his shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, and de Sardet felt an odd urge to run his hands over his bare arms, rub the hairs the wrong way and make him make a face. There was one that he'd always had when they'd been training, when de Sardet had used his magic against Constantin instead of swinging with his sword, like smiling and scowling mixed together because he was too amused to look completely stern. Sometimes he missed training with them both, but it seemed they'd all aged past that. 

"You know, if you're going to look at me like that, we could just get someone to paint you a picture," Kurt said. His smile was easy and teasing and de Sardet liked the way it looked on him. 

De Sardet raised his brows. "Do you think you could sit still for long enough?" he replied and Kurt laughed and reached out to squeeze his shoulder, a good deal more familiar than was strictly proper but de Sardet wasn't about to pretend to mind. He'd have let him get a good deal closer.

"Probably better than you. Did that portrait ever get finished or is it still sitting there in the palace without a face?"

"It's probably still faceless," de Sardet admitted. "But he really wasn't much of an artist." 

"They said he was the best one at court."

"Which is to say he wasn't much of an artist. The best ones rarely come to court." 

Kurt shook his head, amused, bemused, muttering something about nobility never making any sense, and they went in to join the others. 

They left not long after breakfast to start the journey back to New Sérène. Each hour that passed on the road seemed a great deal more like five and though de Sardet enjoyed speaking with the others, he couldn't ignore the fact that his thoughts were firmly fixed on Kurt. They paused to eat by a stream and he watched Kurt go down on one knee and take off his gloves to splash his face with cool water then run his wet fingers through his hair. Then Kurt looked up at him, still down on the grass by the stream. On a whim, de Sardet came closer. He ran his fingers over the shaved side of Kurt's hair, finding the lengthy stubble soft against his fingertips, and Kurt caught his arm, turned his head, brushed his mouth against the inside of his wrist. He let his bottom lip catch on the muscle at the base of his thumb and then bit down there lightly, and he pulled back with another of those easy, teasing smiles. De Sardet laughed and tapped his cheek with the back of his hand but then Kurt stood, and he let the act of standing bring them closer together instead of farther apart. 

Just a glance away behind de Sardet's shoulder, away from the stream and toward where they'd left the others, and then he looked back at him again with the smile faded away. He took hold of de Sardet's arms, between shoulder and elbow, and as Kurt's gaze shifted down to his mouth, as he understood what was about to happen, de Sardet's chest went tight. Kurt surged forward quickly and de Sardet met him in an extremely ill-advised but eagerly anticipated kiss, out in the open, pulling him close by the front of his coat. The kiss itself was only brief but then Kurt hissed in a breath almost against his lips and he slipped one hand to the back of de Sardet's neck and he kissed him again, harder, holding him tighter. Then he stepped back, smiled sheepishly, and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"Sorry about that, Green Blood," Kurt said, though he didn't look particularly sorry at all. He looked amused, and slightly flushed, and very much like he'd have liked to have done it all over again. "You'd think I'd have more self-control, soldiering all these years and all." 

"Did it strike you that I'd complain?" de Sardet replied. He shifted a fraction closer. "Did it strike you that I'd say no?" 

Kurt stopped him getting any closer than that; he pressed one hand flat over the centre of de Sardet's chest, spread his fingers and braced firm. Except, from the look on his face, it was just as much to keep himself from stepping back in, too. 

"That's just it," Kurt said. "I don't trust you to stop me. Best wait till there's a door we can close, yeah?" Then he stepped away again, and walked away, pulling his gloves from where he'd tucked them into his belt so he could put them back on, but he definitely looked back while he was on his way. And really, as de Sardet rubbed his mouth where Kurt's had just been pressing, he knew their return to New Sérène really couldn't come too soon. 

And then, after what seemed to him like far too long, there they were again. They briefly reported to Constantin and then returned to the house and when de Sardet went upstairs after an interminable though admittedly excellent light dinner, Kurt was there leaning against the wall in the staircase just outside his room. He had his arms crossed over his chest, legs crossed at the ankle, an uncertain look on his face like he'd lost his bravado in a hand of cards and wasn't sure what to do for the best. He'd missed dinner to go report to Commander Sieglinde at the barracks - de Sardet still wasn't entirely sure why Sieglinde's rise hadn't resulted in Kurt's promotion to major - and de Sardet had wondered if he'd return that night at all, but there he was. He'd apparently even had the time to leave his hat and jacket in his room with his gloves and his sword, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up though the shirt itself was, at least, still tucked in. He didn't look like anyone you'd expect to find in a legate's residence. 

How his uncle would have disapproved, de Sardet thought; Kurt really didn't fit in with the decor. He didn't look like a guest, like Petrus or Aphra, or Vasco with his obvious Naut affiliation, or Síora as an emissary of her clan. He didn't even look like a servant, given his scars and his less than impeccable state of dress. He looked like precisely what he was: a Coin Guard partially out of uniform, who'd probably have been more at home in the local barracks than where he actually was. The fact was, though, that didn't make him any less attractive. And although he'd always had a healthy respect for his uncle, de Sardet wasn't about to be swayed by the opinion of a man who had for so long so thoroughly hidden the truth of things from him.

"So," Kurt said. 

"So," de Sardet replied. 

Kurt pushed away from the wall and stepped a little closer. "Are you going to invite me in?" he asked. 

"The thought had crossed my mind, yes," de Sardet replied. He opened the door with an over-the-top flourish he hoped would put him at ease. He gestured inside. "After you." 

So, Kurt went inside, and de Sardet followed. Then he closed the door, and he turned the key in the lock so they wouldn't be disturbed, and for a moment Kurt just meandered somewhat aimlessly around the room, looking out of the windows before drawing the curtains that the house staff had inexplicably left open while lighting all his lamps. De Sardet stood by the table and waited, watching him glance at the bed, then a painting on the wall, then the decanter of wine on the tabletop - anywhere but at him.

"So," de Sardet said. 

"So," Kurt replied. 

"Can I offer you a drink?"

Kurt smiled and finally looked at him. "No thanks," he said. "If I can't be here without a bit of liquid courage, I've probably got no business being here at all."

De Sardet nodded. "I understand." 

"Maybe." 

They fell silent, looking at one another while Kurt rubbed his collarbones with his hand pushed in underneath the open collar of his shirt, and de Sardet wondered if he should take off his jacket or if Kurt might see that as presumptuous. Which was utterly ridiculous, of course, given what Kurt was doing there in the first place, so he took off his jacket and he settled it over the back of a chair. He pulled the cloth from around his neck and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, though they likely wouldn't stay put for long. Then he took a deep breath and he went across the room to where Kurt was standing. He ran one hand over his own hair as he looked at Kurt, rubbed the back of his neck, then threw caution to the wind and kissed him on the mouth - just as he'd wanted to since more or less the time he'd understood what wanting was. 

He'd always imagined that Kurt would be straightforward about what he wanted, as he'd been when he'd kissed him that day by the stream. He'd always imagined that Kurt would take charge, and he'd imagined himself letting him. Coin Guards had always seemed bluff and brusque and without the kind of fussy manners Congregation nobles raised their children with, and it wasn't as if Kurt had seemed shy either in general during their acquaintance or in that particular way while they'd been making their way back to New Sérène. But all Kurt did was settle his hands by de Sardet's ribs and let him take the lead. Perhaps that should have made him wonder, but he didn't think.

When de Sardet pushed him up against the door, when he leaned against him so they touched from chest to thigh, when he pressed his mouth to the side of Kurt's neck, to his jaw, to his mouth, it was clear that Kurt wanted him - he could hear the quickness of his breath and see the flush in his cheeks and feel the way his cock stirred against his thigh. Kurt wanted him, but there was an undercurrent of something else, maybe nerves or maybe not. He turned Kurt around, pressed him to the door, shoved up his shirt and he pressed his mouth between his shoulderblades, and as he kept the shirt up with one hand, he ran the other one down the length of Kurt's lash-scarred spine. 

He'd seen the marks before, once or twice, in summers when they'd finished training and Kurt had stripped to the waist and tipped water over his head to cool down. They looked like they'd hurt, or at least like they had at the time he'd got them and that time had probably been years before Kurt had been assigned to the palace. De Sardet traced those scars with his fingers, pressed his mouth to them, feeling Kurt tense up as he did so but he didn't try to move away so it seemed to make sense to assume it was a pleasant kind of tension. He kept the shirt hitched up with one hand and he eased the other down the back of Kurt's trousers, following the intermittent, haphazard lines of scars down to his backside. He found the crack of his arse, he felt his own heart pounding with excitement, and then he stroked Kurt's hole with his fingertips. 

For a second, Kurt froze. Then he pushed him back so quickly and abruptly that de Sardet might have fallen if he hadn't hit the table first. He steadied himself as he watched Kurt turn and pull down his rucked-up shirt as fast as a flash of lightning. 

"I'm sorry, I can't," Kurt said, with a brief rueful, shaken glance in his direction, and then he was out of the room just as quickly. The fact that he paused at the far side of the door to close it softly instead of slamming it almost made him go straight after him. Kurt evidently wasn't angry; it was something else, but de Sardet was at a loss for what that reaction was. Obviously Kurt hadn't enjoyed what he'd done but a simple _I don't like that_ would have more than sufficed. There was no need for him to flee.

He didn't follow. He sat down at the table and let his erection fade back into nothing without even loosing it from his trousers, and he listened to Kurt's footsteps on the stairs.

Somehow, he'd expected it to be a great deal easier, and a great deal less confusing.

\---

The following day proceeded as if nothing had happened the previous night, and a night's rather confused tossing and turning hadn't exactly prepared de Sardet fathom why. Perhaps Kurt simply preferred not to be touched like that. Perhaps he'd expected to be the one doing the touching. Perhaps he'd changed his mind completely. Whatever it was, Kurt avoided him before breakfast, spoke not a single word while at it, and then disappeared soon after. He knew Kurt had other duties, but it still didn't fill him with confidence that the situation would be quickly resolved.

De Sardet spent the day itself working with Petrus in the palace archives - apparently his time in the Thélème clergy had equipped him well for some of a Congregation legate's more tedious administrative duties - and left the others free to amuse themselves about the city. And then, in the evening, after dinner, after dark, he slipped out of the house into the street alone. He thought about taking a trip to the arena and blowing off a little steam in the fights there but he found his way into the tavern instead, drinking alone in a corner of the rather rowdy room. A pretty girl from the brothel downstairs came by to try her luck, or at least to try his purse, and he was tempted - he couldn't honestly have said otherwise, given his previous evening's misadventure and his resulting confusion, not to mention the sad end to his erection that hadn't even been in his own hand. But then, abruptly, the seat opposite him was filled by someone else. Definitely not a pretty girl, likely without such keen interest in his money. His visitor's pay came from quite another quarter.

"You know, it's damned hard to protect a man who runs off alone in the night," Kurt said. 

"You know, it's damned hard to run off alone in the night when you're being protected," de Sardet replied. He wasn't sure if he should be pleased that they were speaking or frustrated that his presence had chased the girl away, but he settled for the former.

Kurt borrowed his tankard and raised it to him in broad agreement. He took a swallow from it and grimaced at the contents. "What are you drinking this for?" he asked. "A man like you can afford ten times better."

"Well, I was attempting to be inconspicuous." 

Kurt chuckled. He threw back what was left of the terrible watered wine, wiped his mouth on the back of his glove and put the tankard back down on the table with a thunk. "Think of that as me saving you from yourself," he said, as he tapped the rim of the tankard with his first two fingers. "And you're so damned _inconspicuous_ I could've found you with my eyes closed, Green Blood."

"How exactly would you have done that?"

Kurt leaned closer, standing up and craning over the table. He gave an exaggerated sniff. "You smell rich," he told him, then dropped back down onto his seat rather heavily. "Like you wash your hair in rosewater every morning. Tell me: does anyone else in here look as clean as you do?"

De Sardet took a long glance around the room, at all the other patrons, unwashed hair and smudged faces and muddy hems, and then back at Kurt. "You do," he said. "Mostly."

"Well, I live with a fancy nobleman. He might be embarrassed to be seen with me otherwise." 

"You know, he'd be a fool if that stopped him." 

Kurt didn't disagree and de Sardet was relieved; at the very least, it seemed that going back to the way things had been before Kurt had made his suggestion didn't have to be awkward. 

De Sardet bought them each a drink after that - a good drink, not the cheap stuff he'd been attempting to choke down prior to Kurt's arrival - and they made small talk for a while over their cups. De Sardet told him the things that Petrus had confessed about his mother, and the things that they'd convinced de Courcillon to tell him about his adopted parents. Kurt told him a little more of what he remembered of his early childhood, and he supposed he'd known that they'd had very different upbringings, but the point was driven home quite succinctly by their conversation. He and Kurt came from very different worlds. It was almost a wonder that they'd ever met at all, but now they had...de Sardet had no wish to let go of their friendship, he thought, even if all else he'd wanted and been tempted by was now to fall by the wayside. 

They left after their third drink, bursting from the hot tavern into the chilly night outside. They wandered vaguely in the direction of the palace and the legate's residence beside it, though frankly de Sardet felt as though a long, slow walk in the cool night air might do him a world of good. Of course, a long, slow walk in New Sérène wasn't exactly the safest of occupations he might have taken to; in short order, they found themselves set upon by bandits.

Kurt ran a man through with his claymore while de Sardet put another down with a bright burst of magic, and then they turned to each other, breathless and faintly bloody with de Sardet's hat nowhere to be seen, or at any rate no longer on his head though he didn't actually look for it. Kurt dropped his sword with a clatter of metal against the stone cobbles, and that was so unusual that for a second de Sardet's mind reeled with the possibility that he was injured, maybe gravely so, because he couldn't think what else could have possibly induced him to treat his weapon with such a completely uncharacteristic lack of care. But then Kurt strode forward. He stepped over a bandit's fallen body and the look on his face was dark and sharp and flushed and focused, and de Sardet only understood in that final moment before it happened that Kurt's intention was to kiss him rather than knock him to the ground. He pushed up against him right there in the middle of the body-strewn street, clasped his arms in his hands just south of his shoulders and pressed his mouth to his, tasting like best Coin Tavern wine under a sweet brandy chaser. Maybe the drink had made Kurt bold, de Sardet thought, though in all other situations he usually had no lack of boldness. But then Kurt pulled back again, still breathing hard. 

De Sardet thought the moment was gone, but it was by no means finished. Kurt closed the gap between them again, deliberately though not quite slowly, and slid one hand to the back of de Sardet's neck. He looked at him, like he was trying to assess whether de Sardet wished to continue or if he'd just been so surprised by that first kiss that he hadn't thought to fend him off. And when he found no objections on de Sardet's face, because he had no objections to give, Kurt kissed him again, slowly, though with an edge of urgency beneath that perhaps still lingered from the fight. It left no room for doubt about whether Kurt still wanted this, after the previous evening's false start; he did, and in the heady haze of combat and drink and the warm press of Kurt's mouth, de Sardet thought he might have let Kurt have him there and then, beneath the rickety scaffolding in the late night shadows. It wouldn't have been the most inappropriate place that he'd ever had sex, he supposed, and he couldn't think of anyone he'd have rather risked discovery for. 

"We should get back to the house before anyone else tries to mug you," Kurt said, when he pulled back just slightly. He was maybe teasing just a little, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact he had his eyes closed and their foreheads were resting together, and his gloved fingertips stroked the nape of de Sardet's neck. 

"I'm tempted to say _let them try_ ," de Sardet replied, "but I don't suppose littering the street with bandits' bodies would be good for my reputation." 

"Oh, I don't know," Kurt said. He pulled back a fraction more, still close, though his eyes opened and his mouth twisted. "Sometimes it pays to be intimidating."

"Am I intimidating?"

Kurt's smile broadened. "Very," he said. "I'm terrified of you, personally." Then he stepped back and went to retrieve his dropped sword, and de Sardet made a quick search for his fallen hat. 

They walked back together, quietly, side by side. It was more of an amble than a walk, really, like they were spinning out the time remaining before they had to return to the house, Kurt playing with the strap that held his sword against his back and de Sardet toying with his half-ruined hat that he was carrying instead of wearing. They glanced at each other now and then, and Kurt ducked his head and smiled and looked away. It was like it had been before, on the road home, and de Sardet would have liked nothing more than to stop where they were and attempt to explain to Kurt exactly how much he valued his company, and valued _him_ , and had enjoyed the evening they'd spent together despite its bloody turn. But they reached the house and they went inside and when they came to the door to de Sardet's room, they paused. He'd have liked to have asked him to come in. He'd have liked Kurt to ask him if he could come in. Instead, Kurt just squeezed his shoulder, one gloved hand against de Sardet's coat, and said, "You should wash that blood off before you go to bed." 

"I'll have someone bring a jug." 

"I'll go. No need to wake up half the house because we got into a fight." 

Kurt swung his sword off his back and he held it out to de Sardet, who took it and stood there with it mutely as he watched Kurt disappear back down the stairs. Kurt didn't often leave his sword unattended; he'd leave it locked in his room, but at all other times it was either in his hand, strapped across his back, or somewhere in his line of sight. In all the time Kurt had taught him and Constantin, he'd never let either one of them hold his sword even under supervision, and for a moment de Sardet was strangely concerned he was going to drop it, until he realised that dropping it would really only wake everyone in the house and not actually damage the sword itself. Especially given Kurt had just dropped it in the middle of a street in the middle of the night, just so he could kiss him. It was more likely to damage the parquetry.

When Kurt returned, de Sardet had laid the sword out carefully on top of his dresser, taken off his coat and sat himself down at the table. Kurt set a large washing bowl and a cloth and a jug of hot water down in front of him, then he poured the water then he dipped the cloth into it, and he leaned close with one hand on the high back of the chair and he rubbed away a stray spot of blood from de Sardet's chin. A drop of water escaped down his neck and Kurt used his thumb to catch it, de Sardet's day's worth of stubble rasping audibly against Kurt's skin. The contact made his throat feel tight. He saw Kurt's throat work as he swallowed.

"You have..." de Sardet said, and he lifted one hand to gesture in the direction of a spot of blood, and Kurt seemed to give it a second's consideration before handing the cloth to him. De Sardet stood, and he dabbed at Kurt's neck, just underneath his jaw, where his unshaven skin caught against the cloth but then again, so did the blood. He pulled lightly at the collar of Kurt's shirt and he dabbed his collarbone and Kurt took a step back, but not really away. He pulled the shirt up and off over his head and he dropped it down on the table by the bowl. 

There was no blood on Kurt's unsurprisingly sculpted chest, but that didn't keep de Sardet from dipping the cloth back into the water, wringing it out and then swiping it over his collarbones, over the places where tanned skin gave way to pale. It didn't stop him running it down over his navel, dampening the trail of dark hair that led down under his waistband. He saw Kurt's throat bob as he swallowed again and let him do it, and then de Sardet stepped around behind him. Slowly, cautiously, he ran the cloth down the scarred line of his spine from the nape of his neck to the back of his trousers, his fingers trailing after it. Kurt glanced at him over his shoulder, then he shuffled forward and he leaned against the table, gave him another glance then unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down. As de Sardet watched, anxiously, expectantly, he bared himself right down to mid-thigh. 

De Sardet re-dipped the cloth. He squeezed a little water against the crack of Kurt's arse and he ran the cloth after it, into the indent at the base of his spine and down, lightly. He gave Kurt's balls a slow squeeze through the fabric then used his free hand to part his cheeks and pressed the cloth against his hole, just the pad of his thumb, and Kurt's back stiffened. He moved the cloth away and saw Kurt shift as he took a deep breath in. And de Sardet couldn't help it; he leaned down and he spread Kurt's cheeks and he leaned in to run the flat of his tongue over the rim of his hole. 

Kurt froze. De Sardet pulled back immediately, suddenly aware he shouldn't have done what he'd done, except it had seemed so much like Kurt had wanted him, too. He watched mutely as he pulled his trousers back up, as he pulled his shirt back on, his breathing faintly shaky all the while. He watched him take his sword from the dresser and Kurt glanced back when he got to the door, just for a second; Kurt looked at him, like he'd have eaten him alive if only he'd known how to, and if that same dismay hadn't got there first, before he left again. 

De Sardet wanted to call him back, and apologise, but he just sank back down onto his chair. He washed his hands in the almost too-hot water, then he stroked himself to a lacklustre orgasm as he wondered what exactly it was that was wrong with what he'd done.

Again.

\---

The following day, it was more or less simple for him to maintain a certain level of distraction from his late night misadventures: Constantin had apparently decided to cede a number of the governor's powers - meaning a number of the governor's official functions - to his legate, which left de Sardet with a large pile of contracts to sign and documents to read before reporting back to his cousin on his progress. He was starting to think he might have to ask for his own office in the palace, or at least a share of Constantin's since he seemed to use it so infrequently. Honestly, though, Constantin likely wouldn't have minded the company, and de Sardet would likely have got nothing done at all.

Kurt's presence wasn't exactly required for administrative work, but his absence and the large quantity of paperwork didn't mean de Sardet's mind didn't wander. He liked to think he wasn't entirely lacking in experience of the world, but he sat back in his chair at the table in his room where Kurt had been not even twelve hours earlier and he thought back over that _experience_ as he gazed out of the window. Teenage fumbles with sons of other noble houses, figuring out what sex was. A Coin Guard sergeant who he'd closed his eyes to pretend was someone else. A rich merchant's son around his age who he might actually have married, if one of them had just had the good sense to be their parents' second-born instead of first, if only to have the damned ridiculous question of matrimony dealt with so he could concentrate on other things. 

Now: Kurt. Kurt, a soldier, a captain in the Coin Guard, no last name because he had no family to leave him one and anyway, it wasn't the Guard's practice to use them. Kurt, his former teacher, a full decade his senior, rough and hard and mercenary but with a warm heart hidden somewhere underneath his breastplate. He acted not at all like the other men that de Sardet had known in that particular way. The others' interest had been in sex; he hadn't even managed that with Kurt, and he had to admit that was confusing to him. He didn't think he'd misread his intentions. He hadn't thought it was possible to, and why had he bent himself down over the table if he hadn't wanted to be touched? So perhaps Kurt had changed his mind. Perhaps Kurt's truth had turned out to be somewhat less true than he'd believed, or there were things he didn't want to do that he couldn't bring himself to voice. Or perhaps Kurt had simply found the reality of spending time alone with him had failed to live up to his expectations; he could understand that, given he'd had several underwhelming liaisons himself over the years. He supposed it was better that he find out early, so his own expectations could be adjusted accordingly. He'd done so before, he thought; he could do so again.

Kurt fell in quietly with him and Petrus on their way to speak with Constantin, hanging back just behind de Sardet's shoulder where his training had probably put him. They went up the stairs and as they waited, de Sardet carried on his rather tedious if important conversation with Petrus. Perhaps he shouldn't have been placing so much trust in a man who was essentially an agent of a foreign nation - albeit not quite a full ambassador or he'd have resided in the Thélème embassy instead of staying in de Sardet's house - but the fact was he did trust him. To the extent he felt he could, at least, knowing the efficiency of his political machinations. Petrus would undoubtedly have had an opinion on his situation with Kurt, but it turned out his trust in him didn't extend that far. 

Eventually, they spoke to Constantin; he apologised that his doctor had been keeping him occupied, listened semi-attentively to their report, then smiled and told them they should do what they thought best with the governor's blessing. Then they left, and Kurt pulled him aside as they left the palace, out of earshot of the guards. De Sardet gestured for Petrus to go on ahead and as they watched him go, Kurt said, "Look, Green Blood, about last night. And the night before." 

De Sardet forced a smile. "Forgotten already," he replied. 

"I want to explain." 

"There's really no need." 

"Then you understand?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I thought you probably liked your men more straightforward, not running off like a damn startled pony every time someone lays a hand on them." The way he smiled then seemed almost more like a wince, and de Sardet felt it like a winding punch straight to his gut. "Just because they can't help but think about a thing that happened twenty years ago." 

De Sardet frowned. He hadn't understood, he realised; he'd thought Kurt had just come to his senses and realised attraction to men in general didn't have to mean attraction to him in particular, or that he didn't want to end their newfound friendship for a fling, or any of a hundred other things that had nothing at all to do with a bastard named Hermann who'd abused his position almost as thoroughly as he'd abused Kurt. It made sense. He resented it, and resented himself for not thinking of it, and he wished that Kurt had said something to him sooner, but it made sense: the reason he'd balked at sex with him was memories of someone else, and de Sardet couldn't say he blamed him for wishing to avoid those memories.

"I understand, Kurt," he told him, and he reached out to give his arm a squeeze what he hoped was reassuringly with one gloved hand just above his elbow. "Matters are complicated. But please be assured that things can be exactly as they always were between us." 

Kurt didn't look particularly assured by that, de Sardet had to admit. He didn't look assured at all, or happy, or like his explanation had eased his mind. "Well, if you don't need me, I'll go check on Commander Sieglinde," he said. 

"Would you like me to accompany you?"

"That's kind, Green Blood, but there's no need." 

"Later, then."

"Later."

Kurt turned and left him there abruptly and de Sardet watched him for a moment as he walked away across the square in front of Constantin's palace. He thought perhaps he'd made another mistake, but he couldn't put his finger on quite what that mistake was, and so he paid a quick visit to Lady Morange before returning to his house. She was pleasant enough company, even if he couldn't quite shake off his distraction; he invited her to dinner on the spur of the moment and she wasn't otherwise engaged and so she came and she sat near him, opposite Petrus. The two of them made enough fine conversation for the whole party, minus their missing Coin Guard. It had taken some time to convince Kurt to eat with him and their other companions and not take a tray to his room or skulk around making the servants uncomfortable. Now he wasn't there, de Sardet missed his presence.

After dinner, he walked Lady Morange home across the square to her waiting servants, though he supposed it might set New Sérène tongues wagging; she was independently wealthy with a head for politics and an obvious lack of current spouse, and de Sardet was nephew to the Prince d'Orsay, so the match would not be a bad one even considering the difference in their respective ages. She might have married him if he'd asked, he thought, for the simple advantageous alliance of it, but he was sure she had no personal interest in him. Not beyond political expediency, at least, and curiosity about how life might have changed back in Sérène since she'd left to become governor.

He returned to his room after that and settled down at the table with a glass of wine and a number of contracts he intended to give some attention before speaking with de Courcillon the following day. And when he heard the knock on the door some time later, he called, "Who is it?" even though he was half sure he already knew. The jolt of anticipation he felt said he suspected he knew, at least. 

Kurt cleared his throat. He could tell it was Kurt - he'd known him long enough by then to recognise him from the middle of a hundred _hem-hem_ s - before he said, "It's me. Kurt, that is. It's Kurt." 

De Sardet smiled to himself. Kurt sounded nervous, but he wasn't really smiling at that directly as much as at the fact he found it endearing. It made him feel warm, because he could only think of one reason why he might sound like that, and he set his quill down on the table and sat back on his chair. Perhaps he'd been wrong about things returning to normal. He thought he might be happy to be wrong.

"Come in, Kurt," he called. The door opened; Kurt entered; Kurt closed the door behind him and he leaned back against it like it might spring open again of its own accord if he didn't make an effort to keep it shut. He took his hat off and he worried the brim of it in his hands, making an awkward face as he looked down at it. It was one that de Sardet had bought for him. Kurt had been good about accepting gifts since they'd arrived on the island, since they'd started spending time together that wasn't just their old training sessions, and de Sardet assumed it was because he knew he could afford it a hundred times over. Even there on Teer Fradee, he was still the prince's nephew; he wished they could both forget that. 

"So, what can I do for you?" he asked. 

"I..." Kurt frowned. He cleared his throat again and then he pulled himself up straight and took one step away from the door and lifted his chin to look at him like he was standing to attention, perhaps because that was easier for him, perhaps because it felt as comforting and secure as pulling on an armoured breastplate. "Look, I know you said things could go back to the way they were. But can we try again before it comes to that?" he asked. 

"Try what again?"

Kurt winced. "You know. This." He flapped his hat at the two of them like that clarified matters. "Spending time together. You and me."

"Having sex?"

Kurt nodded firmly. "That, too," he said. He looked determined, though de Sardet wasn't sure _determination_ was exactly what was called for. "Sieglinde says I should get back on the horse, or take the bull by the horns, or maybe something else to do with livestock." 

"So I'm the bull in this situation?"

"You can be the horse if you'd prefer." 

"Honestly, I think I'd rather just be the legate of the Congregation," de Sardet said, and Kurt chuckled though it didn't quite hide his nerves. 

"Well, I don't think there's any danger of us forgetting that," he replied, and de Sardet laughed and Kurt smiled broadly, maybe not quite easily but he'd never seemed much like he was made for frequent smiling. De Sardet would have happily changed that if he could, he thought, but he could settle for Kurt's nerves being calmed instead - he was usually so confident, at least with a sword in his hand, and de Sardet had found himself almost surprised that hadn't translated to the bedroom, though he supposed he now understood why not. Still, Kurt visibly relaxed, perhaps not completely but enough to make a difference, and the relatively low light of the lamps made his dark hair look black as ink and his tanned skin look burnished gold. 

"You're a very handsome man, Kurt," de Sardet said, thinking aloud rather unguardedly, and Kurt shifted his weight against the parquet floor, apparently not sure what to make of that. His cheeks got redder. His smile made a turn toward awkward. 

"You don't have to do that," Kurt said. 

"Do what?"

"Say things like that." 

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, because I'm not some pretty Congregation nobleman. You know me, Green Blood. I'm a soldier. And I'm already here, so it's not like you need to flatter me into your bedroom." 

"It's not flattery to tell a handsome man he's handsome, Kurt." He leaned forward against the table, on his elbows. "Hasn't anyone ever told you how attractive you are?"

"Not in so many words, no." Kurt screwed his face up. De Sardet saw the muscles in his shoulders tensing up again. "I mean, Hermann told me I was good sometimes; _good boy, Kurt, we'll make a man of you yet_ , you know?" He chuckled darkly. "But mostly he just told me what to do." 

De Sardet frowned. He clasped his hands and shifted uncomfortably in his seat and he wondered, _is that really the only experience of praise he has outside of combat?_ He wondered, _is that really the only sexual experience he has at all?_ He'd have liked to have told him exactly how much he wanted him, and all the ways in which he wanted him, and tried to make him understand that he wasn't trying to flatter him at all. And de Sardet knows Kurt doesn't measure his general worth on what Hermann thought of him when he was young, but at that moment he thought perhaps something of that viewpoint still lingered. He wondered if he might be able to help him with that. 

"What exactly did he tell you to do?" de Sardet asked. He wasn't sure Kurt would tell him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know, but then again he wasn't sure he didn't. 

He saw the muscle in Kurt's jaw work as he looked at him. He didn't ask who he meant, because he obviously already knew precisely who that was. "Well, he'd call me into his office," he said. "He'd tell me to take my clothes off." 

De Sardet folded his hands in his lap and held tight one to the other as he tried to hold his nerve. He told him, "Take your clothes off, Kurt," and he watched Kurt's eyes widen just a fraction, but that determined set to his jaw just strengthened. 

Kurt set his hat down on the table, careful of the papers and quill and inkwell that de Sardet had been using. He'd left his gloves and his sword in his room upstairs but he was still wearing everything else; he took a breath then pulled off his belt and gorget and spaulders and he set them all aside on top of the dresser by the door. He unbuckled his brigandine and threw it over the back of a chair. While he was there, he used the dresser to balance himself as he pulled off his boots - he almost fell and he shot de Sardet a tight, self-deprecating smile before continuing. 

Trousers followed. Then socks. Then tunic, then his long underwear. When he was done, when he was naked in the lamplight, he stood up straight again and swallowed visibly. He looked like he wasn't sure if he wanted to cover himself up, in spite of all the times he must have been naked in front of other soldiers, though de Sardet understood that the context was rather different and rather closer to other experiences he'd had in the past. But Kurt didn't cover himself; he tucked his hands behind his back instead. His cheeks flushed as de Sardet looked at him and de Sardet did look; he let his eyes move over him, head to toe, as Kurt stood there naked and barefoot on the parquetry. He was all lean muscle, tanlines at his neck and elbows, dark hair over his chest that trailed down over his stomach and led to the base of his long, thick cock. There were scars here and there, too: one shoulder, one hip, just above one knee, one at his ribs that probably curled around from a lash scar on his back. It really hadn't been a lie. Kurt really was handsome.

De Sardet brought his gaze back up to Kurt's face. "And then?" he asked.

"He'd tell me to bend over his desk." 

De Sardet nodded and he gestured at the table and Kurt frowned just for a second before his determination vanquished his reluctance. He moved over to the table; he leaned down, bending low over the edge of it, resting on his forearms with his head bowed. De Sardet could see the lash scars, concentrated on his back with a few stray stripes across his thighs and his backside. He could see how tense he was.

"And then?"

"Inspection," Kurt said, tightly. He sank lower. He rested his forehead down against the polished tabletop and from where he was sitting, de Sardet could just make out the fact he'd closed his eyes. "He'd press a bit of paper between my... against my..." He huffed out a frustrated breath. He took another. "He wanted to know I hadn't been messing around with anyone else. He told me I'd be punished if I did. And he was famous for keeping his word." 

De Sardet stood up slowly. He felt sick, and he felt aroused, and he felt sick that he felt aroused, but he stepped around behind him and, after a moment's pause, he ran the back of his hands over the back of Kurt's thighs. Kurt flinched but he didn't try to stop him and de Sardet continued, turning his hands, running them over his backside. He squeezed, then he leaned past him, his clothed groin pressed flush against Kurt's arse, and he tore the corner from a sheet of paper lying on the table. He parted Kurt's cheeks, though honestly he wasn't sure if he should be doing this or not, whether this would help or just hinder, if this was actually for Kurt or just for himself, but he'd already come so far. He pressed the scrap of paper to Kurt's hole and he heard his breath hitch. He felt his muscles tighten. He saw his fingertips press against the tabletop so hard that they turned white. 

"Was he looking for oil or was he looking for semen?" de Sardet asked. 

Kurt took a shaky breath. "Either," he said. "Maybe both. But I didn't, I never..." He let out that breath and took another, slowly. "In summer, sometimes he'd pretend he thought sweat was...you know. Oil or come or whatever else." He moved one hand and waved it vaguely at his scarred back, and de Sardet understood precisely what he meant in a rush of repugnant realisation. "Those weren't good nights." 

De Sardet felt the muscle at Kurt's rim twitch tight under his thumb. He pulled the paper away, feeling a burning in his chest and in his gut that he knew was complete futile because Hermann was already dead, burned down to ash in San Matheus. He moved the paper away, crumpled it and tossed it across the room, straight into the fire where it burned to ash as well. He hoped the symbolism wasn't lost on Kurt.

"What next?" he asked. 

"He'd spit. On my..." Kurt banged one fist on the table, sharply, making de Sardet jump, and he hissed out a breath. "He'd spit on my hole and rub his dick in it." 

De Sardet's chest clenched. He parted Kurt's cheeks with hands that were very nearly trembling. He spat, and he rubbed there with his fingers, the pressure firm but not close to penetrating. 

"And then?"

"Then he'd put it in." 

"Did you like it, Kurt?"

"No." He dropped his head down hard against the tabletop with a bang almost as sharp as the one he'd made with his fist. "No. It hurt. It always hurt. But it was better than a flogging. Usually." 

"And you think that's what I'll do?"

"Isn't that how this works?"

He sounded so earnest that de Sardet had to force himself not to step away. He shifted his hands, though, away from his hole, and gave Kurt's hips a slow squeeze as he tried to figure out where to go from there. 

He could have done what Kurt expected - it wouldn't have been the first time he'd been caught without some form of lubrication and he knew saliva would do very well if both parties were interested enough in what came next, and he'd proved that more than once with more than one very willing partner. But Kurt was tense and tight and he expected it to hurt, just like it had hurt him years before; de Sardet thought it probably would hurt, given the circumstances, and that wasn't at all what he wanted from this. He would have hated himself, and would have thoroughly expected Kurt to hate him, too.

He could have asked Kurt to take him instead, and guided him through it, told him what to do every step of the way and shown him exactly how enjoyable it could be. He could have taken him to the bed and straddled his hips and ridden his cock until he came in him. But it seemed that Kurt was set on de Sardet having him, even if only because he thought that was required, even if he expected it to hurt the way it had when he was young, when Hermann had fucked him bent over his desk in some sordid secret camp. There was no wonder he'd walked out the previous night and the night before that. He hadn't meant to, but de Sardet had been reminding him of his past in all the wrong ways. And this, this grotesque reconstruction of what had happened to him all those years ago, couldn't have helped him at all. He had no idea why he'd done it, but he knew it couldn't continue.

Then he did take a step back, and he saw the muscles in Kurt's back go tense. 

"Did I say something wrong?" Kurt asked. 

"No," de Sardet replied. He felt heartsick and disgusted with himself. He felt foolish and naive and young. Very, very young. "You told me the truth. I hope you always do that." 

"What is it, then?"

"Turn around. Look at me. Please." 

Kurt did. He turned, frowning, and he stood there naked and somehow half hard in spite of everything, in spite of himself, in spite of de Sardet who had done this to him, as he raised his gaze to look at him. 

"This isn't right, Kurt," de Sardet said. "I think you should leave." 

And Kurt looked at him for a moment, wincing as if he'd just taken a musket ball straight to the gut, before he gave him a tight nod and then turned away again. He didn't bother putting his clothes on; he just gathered them up, let himself out of the room, and left with them in a pile in front of him. 

It wasn't until after, lying in bed trying to wish away the shameful erection straining at his underwear, that he realised exactly how what he'd said might have sounded. It turned out he really wasn't good at this. All the pretty things he said to other people in his diplomatic function and he couldn't even come close to saying the right thing with Kurt. 

If Kurt was relying on him to take the lead, who knew where they would finish. Or maybe they already had, and he was the one who'd finished it.

\---

In the morning, Kurt wasn't at breakfast. De Sardet wasn't particularly surprised by his absence. 

On the other hand, the others were definitely there. Síora and Petrus had been conducting some manner of research with Aphra, something about uses of native magic versus Gacane magic, and while it all seemed perfectly fascinating, de Sardet had to admit he found it difficult to pay much more than cursory attention to the conversation they were having at the breakfast table. Unfortunately, much more than cursory attention was required in order to follow their discussion, and he found himself speaking to Vasco instead. The Nauts had carefully hidden their scientific sailing methods for many hundreds of years under a veneer of mysterious 'Naut magic', but Vasco didn't have any magic of his own or any particularly keen interest in the others' work. He'd been helping Aphra keep her notes but that was likely just to take his mind off the landlocked state of his current assignment while Admiral Cabral decided what to do with him. 

Once his morning's work was complete, de Sardet left the others to their research and went with Vasco to the port. It wasn't quite the great port of Sérène, where princes had given the Nauts their own not inconsequential territory to operate as they saw fit, but Vasco seemed to stand taller the closer they got to the water. He seemed wistful, too, which de Sardet understood - he had plenty with which to occupy himself, and his cousin was there with him, but he missed his home, too, even if he hadn't been sorry to see streets that weren't littered with the bodies of those the malichor had taken. Still, he understood, and he found himself at something of a loose end until he had Constantin's leave to exit New Sérène again, so they made a brief detour to speak to Admiral Cabral. Perhaps he couldn't improve his own situation, either with regard to his distance from home or his relationship with Kurt, so he thought he might as well attempt to help Vasco. It was a nice day for it, after all - the sun was high and the sky was blue and a faint breeze came in from the sea, and he enjoyed Vasco's company.

The admiral had plenty of tasks to keep them both occupied throughout the rest of the day and into the early evening. He hadn't seen Vasco so animated in days, possibly weeks, as they sneaked around the port and paid a visit to the local merchants and ate dinner together in the tavern to keep an eye on their current target. And when they left, de Sardet spotted Kurt with Sieglinde heading in the opposite direction; de Sardet raised one hand in greeting as they were walking their separate ways, and Kurt raised his in reply. Vasco gave him a look that said he understood exactly what was happening between them, even if he couldn't possibly have known; Sieglinde did exactly the same, and de Sardet walked on toward the docks feeling disconcertingly as if all of his desires and his regrets and indeed the workings of his mind in general had just been exposed for all to see. He hadn't realised he'd been so utterly transparent but at least Vasco had the good grace not to mention it. Whether that was due to their current occupation or a general ambition not to involve himself in his friends' affair was somewhat up for debate, however. 

They stole a map from the harbour master's office, spent an hour deciphering a code written about its edges at a table at the tavern, and then returned the map and took the message from it back to Admiral Cabral. She thanked them. She seemed pleased, and promised Vasco command of the next transport that would sail for San Matheus, then Hikmet, then back to New Sérène. The ship was due to set sail in two days' time and de Sardet was pleased for him, but knew he'd be sad to see him go and told him so. 

"You and the captain can always sail with me, de Sardet," he told him, as they were making their way back to the legate's residence. "It's a faster journey than a walk across the island, if you have business with the governors. Or just want some fresh sea air." 

De Sardet thought they might take up the offer to travel with him, if Constantin agreed to it. And he didn't say a word about why Vasco had thought it would be him and Kurt. Not Síora, or Aphra, or Petrus. Him and _Kurt_.

Back at the house, they had a drink in the dining room while they spread maps all over the table and tidied up their island charting work for Sir de Courcillon. Vasco had proved to be the best at that, with his Naut knowledge of navigation, and had even seemed to enjoy it, and they found some of the old maps drawn up under Lady Morange's early governorship that they used to make comparisons. It was interesting work, but the candles started burning low and they put the task off for another day. Vasco went up to his room. De Sardet went to his, with his most recently located pages of Professor Serafeddin's notes, to read for a while before bed. It was preferable to dwelling on his previous evening's disastrous liaison with Kurt.

Perhaps an hour later, there was a knock on his door. He knew who it was without asking, with a prickle of anticipation tingling up his spine that he hadn't dared to hope for, because he honestly hadn't been sure if he'd come back at all. So he shuffled his papers together, called, "Come in," and waited. 

When Kurt came in, the first thing that struck de Sardet was that his face was perfectly smooth and clean-shaven. He'd had the cut of his hair neatened up, too, and his jacket had been brushed down smartly. He'd polished his boots and his belt and his belt buckle, the metalwork of his armour had a high, sharp shine, and when he flexed his hands and drew de Sardet's gaze, his fingers still looked pink from where he'd clearly scrubbed his nails until his fingertips were nearly raw. De Sardet has always understood that soldiering is a dirty job, and he's always understood that Kurt is a Coin Guard and not part of his uncle's household staff - the palace servants present themselves immaculately at all times. He'd always liked that about him, though, that he'd always been so rough around the edges, not like de Courcillon's polish or the palace servants' deference, and seeing him so neat and clean and tidy was unsettling. 

Once he'd closed the door and turned the key in the lock, Kurt didn't speak. He undressed instead, folding each item over the back of the nearest chair as he did so, armour on the dresser, setting his boots side by side by the table leg. He stripped naked, efficiently and without a word, not looking at him, not really looking at anything, and then he turned his back. 

"Sorry for last night," he said, not looking at him though that seemed rather intentional, and he leaned down over the table. "I can do better than that." And de Sardet would have liked to have told him it wasn't about _better_ or _worse_. He'd have liked to have told him he didn't have to do anything he didn't want to do, and he wouldn't be disappointed by that. His heart felt full and his chest felt tight and he wanted to tell him to put his clothes back on and sit down and they could play cards and talk and have a drink together and maybe kiss if the mood struck them. But Kurt licked his lips anxiously and he shifted his weight and de Sardet couldn't think of a way to tell him _let's not_ that wouldn't sound like it was his fault somehow, like he wasn't adequate or like de Sardet's interest had cooled because of him, and it was therefore some kind of punishment. It really wasn't. He just wanted Kurt to understand it wasn't a race, and it wasn't a competition; they had time to figure out the things that they each liked and wanted. De Sardet couldn't lie: he wanted to have Kurt in his bed. But, more than that, he wanted to put Kurt at his ease, and he didn't care at all how long that might take, not even then. 

"Green Blood?" Kurt said, when the silence stretched.

De Sardet looked at him. And he meant to tell him to stop but Kurt propped himself up on one shoulder against the tabletop and he slipped both hands back behind himself. He spread his own cheeks wide, exposing himself completely in a way he'd never seen him do before. De Sardet's chest felt tight but he looked, ridiculously, his gaze drawn down because apparently Kurt's hair removal had extended to the crack of his arse. He was completely smooth between his cheeks and with a turn of his stomach, de Sardet wondered if it was Hermann who'd wanted that, and taught him that, and he himself that had pushed him back into old habits, as if _this isn't right_ had meant _you've failed to properly prepare yourself_. He needed to change that. He desperately needed to change that. 

"Kurt, would you look at me, please?" he said, and Kurt paused for a moment before he shifted and pushed up and turned around to face him. 

De Sardet untucked his shirt and pulled it off over his head. He toed off his boots. He stripped off his trousers till he was standing there naked in front of him and Kurt's light eyes were wide in the lamplight, looking at him. De Sardet wrapped one hand around himself and stroked, and it drew Kurt's gaze, and he was already hard, almost shamefully so considering what he knew was motivating Kurt and all the things he shouldn't have done the night before, but Kurt didn't seem to mind. His eyes widened further. His own cock began to stiffen. He took a half step back against the table, the edge of it pressing to the curve of his arse, and he held onto it tightly. 

"Do you want me to suck you?" Kurt asked, red-faced and sudden, with a vague gesture in the direction of de Sardet's cock. "He always said I was good at that." 

"No." Kurt winced. "Rather, I'd like that very much, but that's not what I want now." 

"Then what?"

De Sardet went to the bed, to the chest of drawers beside it, and removed a little pot of oil from the top drawer. He went back to the table and he removed the stopper, and he poured some out onto the saucer where his teacup would have been sitting if he hadn't had the terrible habit of drinking while walking and leaving them dotted around the room in the oddest of places. He dipped his fingers into it and shook off the excess. 

"Lean down again," he said. 

Kurt did as he was told. 

"Move your legs apart." 

Kurt shifted them wider. 

Then de Sardet ran his free hand down the length of Kurt's back, and he parted his cheeks, and he brushed his oiled fingertips against his hole. He rubbed there, slowly, two fingertips against the tight muscle, as he set his other hand, fingers splayed, between Kurt's shoulderblades. 

"Do you trust me, Kurt?" de Sardet asked. 

Kurt didn't hesitate. "Yes," he replied. 

"Then I want you to relax. Close your eyes, Kurt. Breathe. I'm going to show you that this doesn't have to hurt." 

Kurt made a skeptical sound in the back of his throat but as de Sardet rubbed between his cheeks, paused for more oil and then rubbed again, he did at least feel him make an effort to do as he'd been asked. He felt the tension start to fade from between his shoulderblades as he stroked there with one hand. He felt the tension fade from between his cheeks as he rubbed there with his fingertips. And he pressed there, slowly, making him pull tight and then relax again, pull tight and relax _again_ , again and again, until the first joint of his first finger could press inside him. Kurt took a shaky breath. He made himself relax again. De Sardet's finger pushed in further. A few more long moments, careful and aware, and he was in him knuckle-deep. Kurt shivered as he breathed in. 

"Does that hurt?" de Sardet asked. 

When Kurt said, "No," he sounded so surprised by it that he really did believe him. And after a moment's pause, he started to add a second finger there beside the first, watching as he did it, careful as he stretched Kurt's hole a little wider. It had been maybe twenty years and Kurt was obviously nervous, contrary to his usual outlook on the world, so de Sardet took his time and returned for more oil often as he breached him with two fingers instead of only one. He twisted his hand. He pushed in right down to his knuckles, eased back just half an inch or so, pushed back in again, and made Kurt groan with it but not from pain. He pressed his free hand down at the small of his back, rubbing at the indent at the base of his spine with the pad of his thumb while he watched him stretch around his fingers. He wondered if Hermann had ever done that for him, or if he'd just pushed straight in and to hell with it. He suspected the latter, and resented him for it.

It really wasn't more than a few minutes until Kurt was ready, slick and relaxed, hole shining with oil that Hermann would have flogged him for, once upon a time, when Kurt had been younger than de Sardet was then. He pulled back. He slicked himself. He pressed the tip of his cock against Kurt's slick hole and he rubbed there with it, slowly, a languid set of circles at his rim, before he guided himself into place. He pushed forward, applying pressure just short of what he knew it would take to penetrate him. He felt Kurt start to tense again.

"Relax, Kurt," he said, giving one of his hips a slow squeeze while he rubbed at the rim of his hole with the other hand. He shuffled forward and he felt Kurt start to give; he felt how hard he was trying to let him in, though his breath was shaky. And as Kurt relaxed, the head of de Sardet's cock finally eased into him; Kurt drew tight around him for a second but then knocked his head quite purposely against the table and de Sardet both saw and felt him stretch to take him deeper. Kurt felt hot around him, and very nearly too tight, and de Sardet could barely believe what he was doing or indeed what Kurt was letting him do. His heart beat quickly and he pushed in, fraction by fraction, until his cock was inside him as far as he could go. Then he used his hands to frame Kurt's hips, fingers at his hipbones. He took a breath. He steadied himself as best he could.

"How does that feel?" he asked. His own voice sounded strained, and he shifted his hips, pushing just a little deeper. Kurt gave a surprised groan, and he shuddered, and he pulled tight around him just for a moment before relaxing again. "Good? Bad? Do you want me to stop?"

Kurt leaned down as low as he could against the table. He arched the small of his back, stomach forward, arse up, and the way he moved forced de Sardet deeper still. One of Kurt's hands went forward and he dipped his fingers in the oil before he wrapped them around his own cock. He stroked slowly.

"Don't stop," Kurt said. " _Fuck_. No, it doesn't hurt. Don't stop." He sounded raw and almost overwhelmed but truthful, so de Sardet didn't stop. He pushed in. He gripped Kurt's waist and he pushed in, flexed his hips, braced himself and pushed in again. A few thrusts and Kurt pushed back to meet him and he groaned out loud, low and shocked and hot. The table legs screeched on the wooden floor as it shifted and the large stack of books and documents he'd been creating toppled over like a paper cascade and de Sardet laughed, breathless, as he felt Kurt push back against him. He felt Kurt's hips shift, felt them rock, and he stayed still with his hands at Kurt's waist to let him fuck himself on the length of him. He watched him take him, his rim stretched slick and tight around him, biting his lip to keep himself from moving. And he knew Kurt was stroking himself, too. He could feel the motion of it, and how every time he squeezed the tip his hole pulled tighter just for an instant. He could feel it when his strokes became erratic, not just because the way he pushed back against him lost all sense of rhythm. He knew what was going to happen. He felt Kurt come, clenching tight around him, over and over, as he groaned against the tabletop. Then de Sardet pushed deep and let go himself, inside him, with all his muscles pulling taut. 

When he pulled out, Kurt was still leaning down over the messy table. De Sardet nudged him, cajoled him, made him turn around, and his face was flushed and his hair was a mess and maybe he'd have liked to have said something except de Sardet kissed him breathlessly before he could get a word out. Kissing Kurt was the easiest thing in the world, it seemed, though he tasted of terrible tavern wine that he'd probably drunk to lend himself the courage to come back again, contrary to what he'd said about alcohol the first time they'd tried something similar. De Sardet kissed him. He kissed his mouth with Kurt's disconcertingly smooth face in his hands, his fingers at the soft hair of his fresh haircut, and then wrapped his arms around him. He held him tightly, still catching his breath, warm skin to skin with his palms pressed flat to the scars at Kurt's back, and Kurt almost seemed to hold him even tighter than that. 

After a moment, Kurt pulled back just far enough that they could kiss again, slow and hot with Kurt's nails raking bluntly at the back of de Sardet's neck and against the small of his back. Kurt nudged him back in the direction of the bed, still kissing him, and de Sardet would have let him walk him there and push him down and kiss him until they were ready again or fell asleep, whichever came first. He would have let him stay, or maybe asked him to, and been pleased to wake up with him in the morning. It felt right, but then Kurt stopped. He disentangled himself and he pulled away. He looked at him, ran his hands over his hair, and cleared his throat. 

"I should go," Kurt said. "I'm..." He laughed, high and incredulous, at a complete loss for words. He shook his head. He turned away and started pulling on his underwear, a strange mix of oil and de Sardet's come still on his skin, but apparently he thought better of putting the rest of his clothes back on because he just gathered them up in his arms after that. 

De Sardet frowned. "Kurt, is something wrong?" he asked. 

"No." He dropped one of his boots with a thunk and stooped to retrieve it. "Nothing's wrong. It's late. Don't you have work to do tomorrow? I should get to bed. So should you." 

"There's a perfectly good bed just here," de Sardet said, still frowning, and he gestured to it. "It's more than big enough for two. You could stay."

"I should go." 

"You don't have to."

"Green Blood..."

De Sardet wasn't entirely sure what else to say. Kurt didn't want to stay, that much was suddenly abundantly clear, and he supposed that made sense; Kurt probably hadn't expected much aside from sex, and chances were he hadn't wanted any more than that, either. Chances were he'd had what he'd come for, and de Sardet took a breath and told himself that was fine. He'd been prepared for that. He'd made his own choice and he wouldn't try to alter Kurt's. 

He smiled, aiming for bright but likely hitting rueful. "I apologise," he said. He took a step back, hoping the barely more than symbolic additional distance would help push down his disappointment. "You're right. It's late. Don't let me keep you." 

And there was a moment where the look on Kurt's face said he might have something to say about that, where he looked like he didn't understand why de Sardet's reaction had changed, but he just smiled tightly, nodded, almost _bowed_ , and then turned to leave the room. De Sardet watched him go, then he blew out the lamps and went to bed. 

Things would go back to normal, he supposed, or maybe they would do this again and if they did, he would understand its bounds and limitations. He could do that. 

Of course, telling himself he didn't mind was a great deal easier than believing it. 

\---

Kurt didn't sail with him. 

The following day, Kurt hung back by de Sardet's right shoulder while Constantin gave his permission for his legate to sail with the Nauts. He had diplomatic business for him to discuss with the governors, he said, and though he would have preferred de Sardet stay close by in New Sérène, he also didn't trust anyone else there the way that he trusted him. De Sardet couldn't say he didn't understand; he felt the same, and the truth was if Constantin's brother had lived, the two of them would likely have been travelling together instead of Constantin having the governor's seat. He would have liked that. They would both have liked that. 

He spent the day with Petrus. They tied up loose ends of Congregation business with Sir de Courcillon and Lady Morange and visited Vasco at the docks to bring him news that they would be joining his party before returning to the residence for dinner. Dinner itself was a strange affair, given the news they'd had from Vasco: there was only room on board for three of their remaining company of five, so two would not be joining them. Síora volunteered to stay behind, or rather she said she'd visit her home and sister and return to New Sérène in time for their ship to dock. Petrus would be needed in San Matheus, and Aphra specifically requested the trip, so Kurt shrugged and said, "I'll spend a few days inspecting the palace guard. They'll hate it, but they're overdue." 

De Sardet wished he could have made space for him, but he understood. And when he went to bed that night, trying not to recall the things they'd done together in that same room, he thought perhaps it might be for the best; with some time apart, matters between them might settle back into their usual equilibrium. It just might have been simpler had he not overheard Kurt telling Aphra and Petrus that they'd best look after him; Aphra said something insulting but affirmative and Petrus said something reassuring with a bite beneath, which de Sardet couldn't help but feel said quite a lot about the two of them in general. But, as he lay awake in bed, he couldn't quite convince himself that Kurt had spoken only out of duty. He wished he could have. 

In the morning, bright and early, their ship set sail for San Matheus. Once out of the port and following the coast, Vasco asked de Sardet to join him at the rail, and they discussed Naut navigation away from Aphra's keen ear and inquisitive mind.

"I remember what you said about your first time in the crow's nest," de Sardet said, as they leaned side by side against the rail and looked up past the sails. He turned his head; from the look on Vasco's face, brows raised, half smiling, he expected the question when de Sardet said, "Can we?"

"You might live to regret that," Vasco replied, but he clapped him on the back and smiled broadly as he said it. They took off their hats and long coats and Vasco showed him the way through the swinging lines, calling back to hold on tight. And when they got there, de Sardet's heart hammering in his chest more strongly than it had in any fight, four near-misses with slipping from the ropes behind him, he pulled himself up into the crow's nest and crouched beside Vasco. With Vasco's spyglass, he could see all the way back to New Sérène and pick out the governor's palace on the hill. Constantin would have probably enjoyed the height of it and then promptly fallen halfway down the mast with his leg stuck in a line, but somehow that didn't make de Sardet wish that he was there any less. He and Kurt would have rescued him, and Vasco would have helped, though at least one of them would probably have laughed. Depending on his mood, Constantin might have, too.

They spent three days in San Matheus, staying in the embassy. They had dinner with Mother Cardinal Cornelia in the governor's residence on the first evening, then suffered through dinner with Inquisitor Aloysius in the Inquisition's headquarters on the second, biting their tongues as best they could. The third night, they ate with Vasco in the captain's cabin on board the ship, then walked back through the city in the moonlight. Petrus talked to them about his training as they walked, a process that was generally well-documented but took little account of their specific routines for those skilled with magic. De Sardet had known the view on magic in Thélème was that it had its roots in the divine, but that its power could be used for good or ill; he hadn't realised that practitioners in Thélème were so strictly and almost without exception recruited to the Church and raised into the clergy. At ten years old, upon showing the first signs of magical aptitude, Petrus had been whisked away into the local seminary. De Sardet, on the other hand, had learned most of what he knew of his own magic from Sir de Courcillon's books. Constantin, ever the adventurer, had let him practice on him. 

They set off from San Matheus toward Hikmet the following morning and arrived late on the second evening, after a night spent at sea with more navigational instruction from Vasco. De Sardet found it fascinating; his education had been filled with stories, both historical and political, and while they had held his attention, his interest had always been drawn by science. Constantin, though somewhat given to drink and similar embarrassment, had a good head for accounts and would no doubt handle the country's finances extremely well one day, should he refrain from spending them on brandy and adventure, but de Sardet's talents had always been more in Aphra's camp. He'd enjoyed reading texts from the Bridge Alliance, but Vasco's insights into navigation via the positioning of certain celestial bodies and the use of complex instrumentation was such a novelty that the distraction was extremely welcome. 

They spent four nights in Hikmet. De Sardet dined alone with Petrus on that first evening, while Aphra was away gathering supplies for her current research project. De Sardet had learned that her mind was always turning, and she pursued knowledge eagerly, though not at the expense of others as her mentor had. He and Petrus talked of her plans to publish her research into differing forms of magic; Petrus thought it might fare better in the Bridge Alliance than Thélème, where it would probably be considered heresy, but de Sardet wondered if his uncle might be persuaded to grant her some kind of royal stipend and establish her research in the Congregation. After all his years of lies, about his nephew's true origins and otherwise, it seemed like the very least he could do.

The second night, they were persuaded to join a gathering at the governor's residence, more a scientific symposium than a diplomatic party. Aphra was just as outspoken as ever, and de Sardet observed with fond amusement. She could not be persuaded to bend her observations to fit prevailing theories, which he considered substantially to her credit. Petrus didn't disagree, but said he suspected it would steer her into trouble. On that point, de Sardet couldn't say he disagreed, either.

By the third night, de Sardet had almost convinced himself that returning to New Sérène would pose no problems and he would be able to return to his previous relationship with Kurt. By the fourth night, he was entirely convinced: some time away had put his desires and disappointments into the correct perspective, he thought. He could maintain a safe and perhaps even comfortable distance, he thought. Then they set sail, carrying trade goods bound for New Sérène and a small number of passengers meeting the next ship bound for the Congregation. They came into the harbour, and he disembarked with Petrus and Aphra, and they made their way to the palace to report to Constantin, since it was still only the early afternoon of their second day from port. Inside, when he saw Kurt standing there at the step before Constantin's seat, he cursed under his breath. He knew in that instant that he'd been entirely mistaken. This would not be simple. But, for their friendship, he would try.

When Constantin took him by the arms to greet him, and pulled him into his usual hug, de Sardet was trying not to look at Kurt. When he faltered in his report, Petrus gave him a sideways look and then stepped in to assist. Then they all left together, with Kurt back with their party, and went back to the residence to find Síora in conversation with Vasco, arrived from his ship with their baggage and a large fish his crew had caught at sea that he gifted them for dinner. 

The others spoke energetically, about Aphra's project and Vasco's next voyage and how pleased Síora had been to see her sister and her village. They ate, and the fish was excellent. They drank some of the good Congregation brandy that Petrus had persuaded into liberation from Mother Cardinal Cornelia's private stores. And when Kurt excused himself to bed and left the room, Petrus gave de Sardet a look that fairly screamed, _why aren't you following?_ Not only Vasco knew the contents of his mind, then, but also Petrus. And while the others talked, de Sardet wondered if any of them might have sensible advice on the topic of selectively forgetting a romantic entanglement. More specifically, a romantic entanglement that was apparently romantic only from one side. 

"Speak to him, de Sardet," Vasco said, leaning down by his ear on his way to the door. He leaned against the back of de Sardet's seat and raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Or I will. For me, mind, not for you, though by the winds I think he'd only take me out of disappointment."

"I don't know what you mean," de Sardet said, and Vasco chuckled. 

"I know you don't," he said. "You think what he want's sex, and he thinks the same of you. You'd neither of you ever make a Naut, the way you don't say what you're thinking. And you'll never make a politician, the way what you're thinking's all over your face." He patted de Sardet's shoulder. He pulled himself up straight. Then he said good night to all concerned and as he left, he gave de Sardet a meaningful look. He pointed up. De Sardet understood. 

He wasn't sure, but he trusted Vasco. He wasn't sure, but he wanted to be. 

And that is how he finds himself where he is now: outside the door to Kurt's room.

\---

He takes a breath. He blows it out slowly. Then, he turns to the door and he knocks. 

"Hello?" Kurt calls, as if he's not sure who might be knocking, or maybe he's just so unused to having visitors that he's not sure that he didn't imagine it. 

"It's me," he says, with his voice sounding strangely tight. "De Sardet. Valentin." 

He hears the creak of furniture as someone moves inside the room. He hears muted footsteps on the wooden floorboards. The door opens inwards and Kurt appears at it, barefoot, stripped to the waist, in just his underwear that only reaches down to his knees and clings low at his waist thanks to a drawstring tied there in a precarious bow. Obviously he wasn't trying very hard when he did it; Kurt usually ties excellent knots, almost enough to rival a Naut. De Sardet assumes it's part of Coin Guard training. 

"I've never heard you say your name before, _Valentin_ ," Kurt says, leaning against the doorframe on one forearm that he's pulled up to shoulder height for that purpose. The position tightens the muscles in his arm and in his side and de Sardet tries not to let his gaze be drawn, but it definitely is; he looks, not just at his taut muscles but also the dark hair at his chest that leads down over his abdomen and then underneath his drawstring waistband. Then he looks back up as Kurt continues, "Well, at least not your first name." 

De Sardet smiles wryly. "Well, it always sounded like my cousin and I were given matching names and honestly, he has enough on his mind already without people drawing comparisons between us." He shifts. He folds his hands together in front of him, then changes his mind and gestures at Kurt. "But I'm sorry, Kurt. It wasn't my intention to intrude." 

"You're not..." he says, then he looks down at himself and chuckles. He rubs the back of his neck as if suddenly self-conscious where he wasn't just an instant earlier. "Right, this isn't the barracks. I should probably put some clothes on." 

"Please, not on my account. It's your room."

"In your house." 

"Could you perhaps pretend that's not true, just for tonight?"

"So you're what, just someone I met in a tavern?"

"I could be." 

Kurt raises his brows. "Not with an accent like that," he says, and de Sardet is reminded of the time they did meet in a tavern; _like you wash your hair in rosewater_ , he'd said, smiling, like perhaps he liked that smell on him despite the fact he definitely did not use rosewater. "I mean, unless you're some fancy Congregation merchant after a bit of rough trade. There's plenty of those around. And usually enough sailors and soldiers that they can find what they want." 

"And what if I were? What would the legate say if he knew you were bringing strange men home with you at night?"

"He'd be upset. I think he might be sweet on me." Kurt takes a second, the look on his face like he's trying to decide if he's gone too far, and then he steps aside. "You should come in before he catches on." 

De Sardet goes inside, somewhat nervously considering he didn't come here to stand outside. Kurt closes the door, and he stays there by it while de Sardet wanders around the room. There isn't much in it, just a bed and a small table and two dining chairs that sit by the round front window and Kurt's sword leaning up against the chimney breast. There's Kurt's small trunk at the foot of the bed, too, open with some clothes in it and a few odd trinkets and a notebook full of numbers that de Sardet would like to ask him about, but now is definitely not the time for that. The shutters are closed at the window and there are two lamps burning, one by the bed and one by the table, making Kurt's skin look golden while making his scars stand out. 

"So, what's your name, soldier?" de Sardet asks. He knows he's trying his luck, but he supposes that _trying_ is all he can do at this point.

Kurt chuckles. "I'm Kurt," he says, playing along, at least for the time being. "And you are...?"

"I'm Valentin." 

"Well I'm pleased to meet you, Valentin." 

De Sardet wanders closer, trailing his fingers over the hilt of Kurt's sword, over the spaulder that's sitting on the table, the gouges in the front of his leather brigandine. 

"You seem to be in a dangerous line of work," he says.

"The legate doesn't run from fights," Kurt replies. "Neither do I." 

"Would you like him to?"

"Maybe, when I'm not there to fight with him. But I wouldn't ask him to." 

"It sounds like you respect him." 

"I do. He's bold but not reckless and he's not easily provoked. That's what any soldier wants from their commander." 

"Do you often invite men into your commander's house, Kurt?" he asks.

"There's a first time for everything." 

"And now I'm here, what do you want to do with me?"

Kurt frowns. "What do _I_ want?"

"What do _you_ want," de Sardet confirms. He holds out his arms, palms up, hands open. "I'm not here to tell you what to do, Kurt; I'm here because I hope you want me to be. I don't command you. I'm yours to command."

Kurt looks at him. He looks him up and down, slowly, head to toe then back again, the expression on his face just like the day that they arrived: it's like he's not sure if he's being made fun of, or if it's meant to be a joke they share, or if there's some kind of hidden meaning only high-up Congregation nobility would understand, and de Sardet wants to tell him it's none of those things. In the end, he doesn't have to; he sees the change in the look on his face when Kurt puts his hands on his hips, and he'd like to believe that's him realising that de Sardet has never told a joke at his expense in all the time they've known each other. He's never been anything less than honest with him, at least not by intention. He's telling the truth. What he's offering is genuine.

"I want to see you naked, Valentin," Kurt says, and just the fact that he's said it sends a jolt of something straight through de Sardet. So, he unbuttons the row of shiny silver buttons at the front of his doublet, shrugs it from his shoulders and folds it over the back of the nearest chair. He unties the cloth from around his neck and drapes it over his doublet. He pulls his shirt off over his head, and he toes off his boots, and as Kurt watches him, he pushes down his breeches. He pulls off his stockings and he sets his clothes aside. He bares himself in the lamplight, head to toe, scars and green birthmark and stiffening cock and all. He doesn't mind being exposed in front of Kurt. He quite likes it, in fact, because the avid, hungry way Kurt looks at him now leaves no room for confusion or misinterpretation. 

"What now?" he asks. 

"I want to put my hands on you." 

De Sardet holds both of his arms out wide. "Then by all means do," he says, and he watches Kurt come closer. He stands still as Kurt lifts his hands and rests them warmly at his shoulders, his thumbs stroking his collarbones. He stands still as Kurt runs his hands down lower, brushing his nipples with his palms and following the lines of muscle in his abdomen. He steps around him, runs his hands over his back, thumbs following his spine, slowly, lightly, right down to the crack of his arse. Then de Sardet hears a flutter of fabric and a moment later, he feels the front of Kurt's bare body press up close to the back of his. He feels Kurt's forehead pressing to the back of his hair and Kurt's arms looping around his waist. He can feel the rise and fall of Kurt's chest against his back as he breathes. Kurt shifts and he feels him press his mouth to the back of his shoulder. He feels him fit the length of his stiffening cock to the crack of his arse. 

"Can you pretend to be the legate?" he asks, his voice very little more than a mumble against de Sardet's shoulder. 

"You mean you'd like me to be de Sardet?"

"Him, yeah. Legate of the Congregation. You've probably heard the name." 

"You said he was sweet on you. Does this mean you're sweet on him, too?"

Kurt's arms tighten just a fraction. "It's worse than that," he says. "I think I might love him." 

De Sardet's chest feels tight. His face flushes warm. "So why aren't you with him now?" he asks. "I assume he's not difficult to find."

Kurt takes a moment. He's probably considering whether he should answer at all, and if he does answer, whether he should answer truthfully. Or maybe he's just wondering why he said anything at all.

"I'm about eleven years older than him," he says, in the end. "You maybe think that's fine, but I've known him since he was thirteen years old. I don't know if there's some part of me that still sees him like that and needs burning at the stake in San Matheus." He takes a shaky breath. He holds on tight. "Then there's the fact he's the legate of the Congregation and all I am's his hired guard. And when I was told about the coup, the truth is I gave serious thought to killing him."

"But you didn't kill him." 

"No." 

"What changed your mind?"

"He's a good man. He's my friend. I couldn't do it." 

"And he's what, twenty-four years old?"

Kurt snorts, wryly amused. "Twenty-five," he says. 

"A man, then."

"Yes."

"Old enough to own property. Marry. Be appointed legate of the Merchant Congregation and sent to Teer Fradee." 

"Yes." 

"Did you know him well as a boy?" 

"Not really. I taught him to fight. We didn't talk about much except swords." 

"Do you know him well now?"

"I like to think I do."

"Do you want the man or the boy, Kurt?"

Kurt spreads his hands against de Sardet's skin, one over his sternum and the other at his abdomen. "The man," he says. "I think he left the boy in Sérène."

That's how de Sardet feels, he thinks, like he left his childhood behind on the shores of Gacane and grew another self when they landed on the island. It feels a lot like Kurt's the only one who's seen a difference. Constantin will always see him as his cousin, and Petrus and Vasco, Aphra and Síora, they didn't know the boy he used to be. Neither did Kurt, really, except in flashes while training with a sword. And Kurt feels something for him that he put a name to, and de Sardet understands his reservations, and he understands the situation, but all he wants to do is press forward.

"While I'm pretending to be him," de Sardet says, carefully, "do you want me to pretend he feels the same for you as you do for him?"

"Think you can make me believe it?"

"I can certainly try." 

De Sardet turns in Kurt's arms. He pulls his hands up to Kurt's shoulders, to his face, brushing his prickly jaw. He meets his gaze, and Kurt holds it resolutely though he looks every inch like he'd prefer to find himself a blindfold instead of look at him. 

"You know, I thought you were handsome when I was still thirteen," de Sardet says. "Constantin and I used to make up stories about who you were and where you were from because we didn't know anything about you. Sometimes you were the prince of a faraway land who'd gone into exile in Sérène, or you were the son of a disgraced nobleman waiting to take his revenge. Sometimes you used to be a dragon-slayer. Sometimes you were the greatest duellist the world had ever known. We told a lot of stories. We knew none of them were true, but we liked to imagine." He smiles, part way between nostalgia and self-deprecation, as he shifts his hands back to Kurt's shoulders. "Then, when I was nineteen, I went to bed with a man who looked like you. I pretended he _was_ you. It was easy, really - I imagined we'd just met for the first time and you didn't know how terrible I was at fencing, and I was just the son of a merchant, not the prince's nephew. It wasn't bad, but I have to admit it wasn't particularly satisfying, either." 

Kurt frowns. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks. 

"Because when we came to Teer Fradee, I stopped telling myself stories. You're not an exiled prince, Kurt. I believe you _could_ slay a dragon, if you had to, but I don't believe you have. I know you. You're a captain in the blue-silver regiment of the Coin Guard and the man who helped me save my cousin's life, and I don't need you to be anything you're not. You're my friend. And I understand that our stations are unequal, but I hope I've never treated you as if I believe that matters. You're the best man I know. You don't need to be a prince or a dragon-slayer for that." 

Kurt smiles, red-cheeked, the tips of his ears almost as flushed as his face. "You know, you say a lot of very pretty words," he says. "Do they teach rich kids to do that in Sérène?"

De Sardet chuckles. "Yes, but I try to tell the truth despite my immoral upbringing."

"You know, I could almost believe that."

"You know, I hope you do believe it."

"So this means you'll go to bed with _me_ and not just some stranger who looks a bit the same?"

"Kurt, I'll do whatever you want me to." 

"What if I asked you to..." His gaze flickers down and then back up again. "You know. Use your mouth. Down there." 

De Sardet smiles. "I'd be happy to," he says. He raises his brows. "Now?"

Kurt nods stiffly. De Sardet's stomach tightens. And slowly, pressing kisses to Kurt's skin along the way, to the left of one nipple, his sternum, ribcage, abdomen, one hip, he goes down onto his knees. He lets his hands skim Kurt's calves, his thighs, and settle at his hips. He leans in and nuzzles at one thigh, his belly, one hand coming down to wrap around his cock. He nuzzles him there, too, just at the base of his cock, and mouths softly at his balls. He strokes him slowly, easing back his foreskin and then pinching it back up over the tip until his cock is hard, then he glances up and he licks the tip with the tip of his tongue while he's looking. Kurt bites his lip. Then de Sardet closes his eyes, wraps his lips around the head, and gives a long, slow suck. 

He can hear Kurt's breath. He can feel Kurt's callused fingers slip into his hair, and that encourages him. He sucks him deeper. He squeezes Kurt's balls and sucks him deeper still and makes him groan out loud. Then he pulls back and he strokes him, he kisses him, sucks just underneath the head and rubs the tip with his thumb and Kurt groans again, low and hot. He sucks him in again, so far the tip almost makes him gag but he can't say he minds that, and Kurt's fingers tighten in his hair and he teases him with his tongue, tracing the line of the thick vein that runs up the length of him, flicking at the tip. 

"Stop," Kurt says. "Stop. Stop." So de Sardet pulls back and he sits back on his heels. Kurt looks flustered. His hair is more out of place than when he's been wearing his hat for several hours and he sets his hands at his hips, changes his mind and tucks them in behind his back, changes his mind and rubs his mouth, and de Sardet rests his hands on his thighs and watches him. His own cock is so hard it almost aches but he just sits there on his heels, knees spread. 

"If I were him, what would you want from me now?" he asks. 

"If you were him, I'd want to fuck you." 

"Here?"

"On the bed." 

"How do you want me?"

"I have some oil," Kurt says. "I want to watch you use it." And the way Kurt's blush deepens, de Sardet understands. He nods, feeling his stomach flutter; as Kurt moves away, crouches at the trunk by the foot of the bed, de Sardet thinks about the fact that every other man he's ever slept with...it's perhaps not been quick sometimes, but no one has wanted to watch. The idea that it excites Kurt excites him, and when Kurt returns with the oil, de Sardet is ready. Then Kurt passes him the bottle and de Sardet knows precisely where it came from; it's his, from the drawer by his bed, and Kurt has a look on his face, half amused and half concerned, like he's not sure de Sardet won't ask why he has it. 

He doesn't ask. He takes the oil and he climbs onto the bed and honestly, even if he weren't currently pretending to be someone else, he's not sure what he'd say about it. While he's sitting there, kneeling with his thighs spread facing the headboard with his back turned, he's thinking about why Kurt has his oil. He wasn't due back to New Sérène for another day or two, so chances are he just didn't expect him and he'd have returned to find the bottle precisely where he'd left it, but that's why it's _still_ there, not why it was there in the first place. De Sardet doesn't tend to lock his door - there's little in his room worth stealing that couldn't be found in any other room in the legate's residence - so it wouldn't exactly have been a difficult task for Kurt to slip in unnoticed and rifle through the drawer by his bed, and chances are that no one would have cared much had they caught him. But that's _how_ , not _why_. 

He removes the stopper. He pours a little into the palm of one hand and sets the jar aside, sitting on the headboard and leaning up against the wall. As he coats two fingers with it, his face feels hot and his chest feels tight and moisture leaks at the tip of his cock. As he reaches back and rubs his fingers in between his cheeks, he's thinking about what Kurt might have used the oil for - maybe it was this, right here, just like he's doing now. But, more than that, he's thinking about Kurt's eyes on him. 

It's because of that that he moves, and leans down on one forearm, knees wide, head down. The position pulls his cheeks apart at least a little and that's the point: from where Kurt is, standing there by the foot of the bed next to his trunk, he should be able to see the way de Sardet's cock hangs hard and heavy and how his hole's exposed. De Sardet rubs his oiled fingers against his hole again, flatly, across the rim of it, making his own cock jerk a fraction, then he uses more oil. He presses his middle finger there, between his cheeks, against his hole. He thinks about what Kurt can see, and what Kurt might have done, and then, slowly, he pushes it in all the way up to the knuckle with his other fingers folded in against his palm.

He's done this before. It's really not the first time he's used his own fingers dipped in oil, though usually it's over quickly; usually, he strokes himself until he's almost ready and then when he pushes his fingers in, it only takes a couple of minutes. He usually thinks about sex when he does it, pictures someone else's hands, or someone else's cock, and he's thought about people he grew up with, men from stories that he's read... He's thought about Kurt, especially recently, in bed in Hikmet that first night before they'd even kissed while Kurt was in a bed in a room he shared with Vasco. But now Kurt can see him do it and he rocks against the fingers inside him for a moment before he starts to push his first finger in beside it. 

He can hear Kurt's breath as he breathes in sharply. He can hear his footsteps, then he feels the dip and shift of the mattress as Kurt moves up behind him. He feels Kurt's hands at his waist, warm, holding him there as he fucks himself slowly with his fingers. Kurt reaches past him for the oil and de Sardet pulls his hand back. Kurt presses two of his own fingers inside him, deep and firm, and de Sardet feels himself pull tight around him. He feels Kurt pull away then press the blunt tip of his cock to him. 

"Can I?" he asks. 

"Please do," de Sardet replies, because he honestly can't think of anything he'd prefer to do right now, and so Kurt does. He pushes forward. He pushes in. He does it carefully but not quite slowly, and de Sardet feels himself stretching to take him, feels Kurt opening him up, feels his hole twitch tight around him and feels Kurt's hands squeeze his hips in response. It's been a while since anyone's hand him like this, he supposes - they've been on Teer Fradee for months now, the journey there wasn't exactly the blink of an eye and even before that it had mostly been his own fingers while alone in his bed because the merchant's son he'd been sleeping with had preferred to be taken than to take. With Kurt, though, he's found he wants to be fucked by him just as much as he wants to be the one doing the fucking. 

Kurt pushes into him until he's in as deep as he can go. De Sardet can hear it as he takes a breath to steady himself and lets it out in a whoosh that tickles the hairs at the back of his neck. Then he feels him move, just a little, just a shuffle before he withdraws an inch or so but it's just so he can stroke the rim of de Sardet's hole as it's stretched there around his cock. It makes him pull tighter and he muffles a groan against his arm and then Kurt moves, almost like that muffled sound is what started it, just rocking against him lightly, slowly, in and out, just the tip to balls-deep and back again. The friction of it makes de Sardet shiver and arch his back. Arching his back makes him push back against him. And pushing back, making him push in harder, feels just as good as he can remember it ever being before. Of course, fumbling in storerooms and dark cellar corners and rooms above taverns, ill-lit niches in corridors at his uncle's parties...it had always been satisfying enough in the moment but he mostly couldn't have cared less if he'd ever seen them again. 

Kurt holds de Sardet's waist with his rough hands and his rhythm quickens. De Sardet doesn't mind that at all - he understands, in fact, because he feels the same kind of urgency himself, making his muscles tighten, making his heart race. He moves his hands to press against the headboard so he can use it to push back harder and when he does, Kurt groans and snaps his hips forward smartly with a slap of skin to skin. He really doesn't take any more encouragement than that - he does it again, and again, _harder_ , and de Sardet's muscles all feel wound up tight and his cock is so hard it aches and his insides start to tingle and when Kurt pushes in again, once, twice, that's it: de Sardet lets go, groaning, and comes all over the sheets without either of them even touching his cock. He pulls so tight as he does so that that's it for Kurt, too - he makes a kind of surprised-strangled-cut off sound and pulses inside him as his hands squeeze almost too tight at his hips. 

They both catch their breath slowly, with Kurt still inside him, and their over-tight muscles begin to relax. Then Kurt pulls out and he rubs de Sardet's hole with the pad of his thumb. De Sardet knows he must be slick half with oil and half with Kurt's come, and absently he finds himself thinking there's no way that he could pass Hermann's paper test like this. Kurt doesn't seem to mind, though. Kurt's the one who got him like this. 

And then, at last, Kurt pulls away. And then, at last, de Sardet pulls himself up off the bed. He aches all over, in his shoulders and his hips and his wrists and his hole, and Kurt sits back naked against the headboard to watch him start to retrieve his clothes. 

"Leaving?" Kurt asks, as de Sardet's pulling on his underwear. 

"I think it's time," he replies. "I'm sure your legate wouldn't approve of you taking in impromptu lodgers."

Kurt raises his brows. De Sardet pulls his trousers on, then his boots, but stops at that - everything else he just gathers in his arms, but then he goes back to the bed. He puts one knee on it to lean close, slips one hand to the back of Kurt's neck, and he kisses him. He does it slow and firm and hot, like maybe it's meant to make a point that he's not leaving because he wants this to be the end, and then steps back again. 

"Will you do something for me?" he asks. He frowns. "Actually, two things."

"That depends what they are."

He points. "One: take that oil off the bed before it spills all over." 

Kurt snorts, but he obliges; he retrieves the bottle from where they left it on the headboard and he stoppers it, and he sets it down on the bed beside him. 

"And the second thing?"

"Go talk to your legate," he says. He brushes Kurt's jaw with the backs of his fingers. "Tell him what you told me. As soon as you can." He steps back and Kurt looks at him, his gaze focused and level. De Sardet hopes he understands what this is; he's giving him a choice, so he knows it's _his_ choice, so they'll both know Kurt's chosen it. He says nothing else. He turns, and he leaves. 

All he can do now is wait. 

\---

Waiting, as it turns out, is not exactly his strong suit. 

Waiting is a seemingly interminable, unbearable thing, wherein he flits indecisively between anxiety and resignation. Working at his table doesn't help; he reads the same four lines of legal text multiple times and still can't quite take it in, though his understanding of Congregation contracts - and the various means of breaking them - has been coming along in leaps and bounds. Pacing is ridiculous because it neither makes the time pass quicker nor makes it easier to ignore the pleasant ache in his muscles from earlier exertions. In the end, he calls for water and he drinks a glass of wine as he waits for it, then he spends a few minutes washing himself. He knows he'll regret it in the morning if he doesn't, and the hot water is at least somewhat soothing. 

He's dressing when Kurt lets himself in, no knock, just the sound of the door as it opens and closes. De Sardet is wearing just his long underwear made of some kind of wool with his shirt still in his hands, and he twists it slightly, mirroring the feeling he has inside his chest. Kurt's wearing just his boots and trousers and shirt, but it looks like he's got all his gear in his hands - he puts it all down on the dresser, sword and all - and de Sardet hopes that's a good sign. He watches him lean back against the door and tuck his hands in behind him.

"Have I ever told you what you have to do to leave the Coin Guard?" Kurt asks, which really is not where de Sardet expected this conversation to start. 

He shakes his head. "No, you never have," he replies. "How do you?"

"Well, the Guard's the kind of operation that lives and dies on the money it makes."

"So there's a fee?"

Kurt nods. "There's a fee," he says. "To get out, you pay them what you're worth to them."

"And how do you know what you're worth?"

"You ask."

"And how do they know?"

"They keep records."

"Records of what?"

"Everything. Who you are. What you've done. Ranks. Dates. Places. Injuries. Everything you owe them or they owe you."

"I don't understand."

Kurt nods. "There's a calculation we do," he says. "There's a figure you owe for your rank. You get some back for years of service, lost limbs, serious injuries, things like that. There's some awards for outstanding service, but no one gets many of them. Then you add your gear on top."

De Sardet frowns. "You have to pay them back for your equipment?"

Kurt nods again. "It's all set out in the contract," he says. "I mean, they don't hide anything. The day you sign up, officially, they explain it all to you. No one will tell you they don't. Then they take all the new recruits into the training hall and they've set out all these weapons for you to choose from, all these different types, and some are top notch and some are rusty shite that should be sent to the smith for scrap, not used in a fight. The first debt they add to your record's the price of your weapon and everyone knows that so a lot of the new recruits get the cheap stuff just in case they change their mind and need to get out quick." 

Kurt rubs his neck. He tugs his hair, like he's trying to figure out if this is going to plan, or maybe like he's just not used to making speeches. Then he continues.

"When I got there, there was this sword, this big two-handed claymore almost as tall as I was. And everyone wanted it, you could see that, this big shiny thing with a new leather wrap on the hilt and I swear, it looked like it'd cut you if you looked at it the wrong way." He shrugs. "So I took it. And I've still got it. It's kept me alive all these years, so I can't say I regret it, but the first debt in my record is one I know I might never have the money to pay back." 

He sighs. He rests his head back against the door. "I know how it sounds but it's not a bad life. There's people you can rely on, and they'll feed you and clothe you and all of that. It's just, in the Guard, you learn everything comes with a price. When they offer you a promotion, you take it knowing it's a mark in the ledger. There's no such thing as a gift when you're a Coin Guard."

De Sardet takes a second to mull that over. It makes a strange kind of sense, he thinks; promotion brings rewards, but it ties them further into the Guard. Maybe that's why Kurt hasn't been promoted since Sieglinde took charge. Maybe _Major Kurt_ was offered and refused. Maybe he's refused a lot of things. But de Sardet glances at the items Kurt has brought in with him: those things he definitely hasn't refused.

"But you've taken gifts," de Sardet says. He gestures at the clothes and armour. "From me, at least."

"Yes, I have."

"Is that different?"

Kurt smiles wryly. He tilts his head, and suddenly de Sardet thinks he understands the point of Kurt's story. It's not different at all.

"This was the first thing you bought me," Kurt says. He holds up his hat, then sets it back down. "I gave my old one back to the quartermaster the next day. The last one was this." He holds up his studded leather brigandine. "When we got back to the barracks, I turned the old one in." He gestures. "Boots. Bits of armour. New spaulder. New crossguard for the sword. You even gave me some of your old shirts. The records say all I've got left from the Guard is my sword and my underwear. You gave me the rest."

"Can you give the sword back, too?"

"We don't give back weapons. That's against the rules." 

"Would you like me to pay the debt?"

Kurt smiles. "You're kind. That's kind. And I bet you really would if I asked you to. But I'm not asking."

"Then what are you saying?"

"That I'll give them every coin I earn till I've paid them what I owe them. Then the only one I'll be indebted to is you."

"So then you'll try to pay me back, next?"

Kurt comes forward. De Sardet expects him to stop a few feet away but he comes closer than that, and for a moment he takes de Sardet's wrists in his hands. He skims his palms higher, over his bare forearms, biceps, up to his shoulders. He rubs his jaw with his thumbs. He kisses him and when he pulls back he meets his eyes and he smiles, faintly, making the scar in his lips seem to stretch. 

"No," Kurt says. "You know, I don't think I will." 

And that's when de Sardet really understands, in a flush of warmth that floods his chest and makes him smile. Upstairs, not so long ago, his unconvincing alter-ego asked Kurt to tell the legate something; he's certain Kurt's just done exactly that. 

"Stay the night," de Sardet says. 

Kurt glances around the room then back at him again. "Here?"

"The bed's more than big enough for two. I'll let you pick a side." 

"Don't you think the others are going to notice?"

De Sardet pulls back, but only far enough to push Kurt down onto his chair and straddle his lap. He's not particularly light - he's all muscle, just the same as Kurt is - but Kurt doesn't seem to mind his weight. He just leans back against the back of the chair and looks up at him. 

"Notice what?" de Sardet says. "That we're lovers?"

"Are we?"

"Are we...?"

"Lovers." 

"Yes," de Sardet says, and Kurt's brows rise. "You seem surprised. Wouldn't you say we are?" He doesn't say the others have thought they are for weeks. He doesn't say he's hoped they're right.

Kurt squeezes his thighs. Kurt trails his hands up the line of his bare back. Kurt cups his jaw and brushes one of his thumbs over the mark that spreads through his skin there, like the malichor in reverse. 

In his childhood, when the other children still dared, they'd teased him for that mark, told him it was ugly and maybe it was contagious, and though Constantin had always hit them and called them idiots and threatened to banish them when he became prince, de Sardet had taken it somewhat to heart. Even if he wasn't exactly ashamed of it, and he's never exactly made an effort to hide it, he's always hated being touched there. Kurt touching him seems different, though, and not just because they both know the mark was inherited and not some kind of contagion, or else some kind of character flaw. 

Then Kurt trails his hands down de Sardet's bare chest and tucks his fingers to the second joint underneath the waistband of his underwear. Kurt leans up to kiss him, firmly, like a decision has been made. 

"I'd say we are," Kurt says, all blue eyes and a smile, and de Sardet believes he means that. Because he knows now that Kurt has kept account of everything he feels he owes him, and everything he owes the Guard - that's what's in his notebook, he thinks. And only one of those sums is a debt that he wants to be free of. 

De Sardet stands up and steps away and they go to bed, blowing out the lights along the way until they're in near-perfect darkness. They lie down side by side in de Sardet's big bed and the backs of de Sardet's fingers brush Kurt's, just like they did on the road to Hikmet except the mattress is substantially more comfortable than a bedroll on the ground and, this time, Kurt turns up on his side and rests one arm across his bare waist. He'll have to thank Vasco in the morning, he thinks, once they've figured out how the lives of a legate and a Coin Guard fit together on a long-term basis. They do fit, he thinks. They _can_ fit, at any rate. They just might need to be a bit creative about it.

Kurt knows exactly what he owes. And de Sardet thinks maybe, when Kurt's debt to the Guard is paid, he can convince him that the debt to him is actually unimportant; after all, outside the Guard, gifts sometimes are just gifts. 

Then Kurt can choose him all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Romeo and Juliet_. It's that excellent old advice: "Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast." Neither Kurt nor de Sardet is heeding that particular warning here!


End file.
